


How To Football (You Tell Me)

by phanetixs



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Gen, Humor, M/M, Mediocre flirting, Personal Assistant!Phil, football au, questionable bantz
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-09-03 13:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8716531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phanetixs/pseuds/phanetixs
Summary: Position Open: Personal Assistant (of sorts)
   Call 08-5677-1243 to enquire.  And then, in size 7, garish comic sans at the bottom; (needed to print because of crazy club publicist who thinks im not organised enough. only one copy existing so she wouldn’t fillet me lmao if you see this, you’re one lucky person- D.H.) Or, based off the prompt: Dan is a football manager and Phil is his bumbling assistant who helps him out in more ways than one.





	1. Satu

**Author's Note:**

> im not sure how i came up with this but chaptered fic! december! (we'll see how this one goes, okay?)
> 
> Disclaimer: before I begin, this fic technically exists in a utopia where homosexuality is not a huge problem in the footballing community- unfortunately, in reality, the plight of homosexual athletes is very real and repugnant, to say the least (you can read [this](https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2016/oct/28/homophobia-football-homophobic-abuse-pitch-fans-gay-players) for more info!)- therefore, i am definitely not trying to trivialize homophobia in sport. if anything, i genuinely hope the core message of sport being about love and happiness comes through in this fic.

It’d started off a shit week.

Weeks of, _sorry, Mr Lester, a position is not open now,_ following a fruitless month of September, which should probably be renamed as the _Phil Lester month of joblessness, hopelessness_ \- all textbook sad adjectives. He smiles woefully at the receptionist at the counter, says, _let me know if you have any openings available,_ knowing fully well that the odds of that happening are close to zero, if he even had them at all.

He sighs, grabs his coat from where it’s lying over the sofa and grabs his portfolio; the one encasing pictures of sunsets, and kids gleefully devouring ice-cream and genuine happiness that could only be remembered through a snap of a camera. In it’s full high definition, 30MP magic.

He slings the camera over a shoulder and plows his way through the mass of Northerners, symbolising the peak of rush hour. There are wide-eyed young mums pushing strollers down the pavement, girls speaking in hushed tones, boys eyeing them from the corner of the street. All full of _spirit_ and little longing from something happier, more _complete_ than this single moment.

Which is a photographer’s dream, Phil imagines- it would be _his_ dream if he were good enough to qualify as one. His pockets shake empty, much like his bank balance, and he tries to blink tears out of his eyes as he begins the trudge home, basking in the dim light on the verge of a sunset.

The problem with Phil Lester was that he can’t help but to be an _eternal optimist._ Like one of those irritating _it’ll be alright_ people from movies, that start and end with a cliché. Truthfully, he thinks, optimists don’t really know if things will _really_ be alright. The wistfulness is in knowing that your sheer _presence_ will create a dent in the course of fate, that _maybe_ that overused sentence of encouragement  would be able to initiate this _bigger_ force; be it from the person itself or a twist in destiny.

Which is all good and well until _you’re_ the one under the magnifying glass, the person who has to _take_ the pity and somehow evolve it into something _bigger_ and _better._ Easier said than done, he knows and loathes and regrets, and he kicks pebbles as he walks. An old habit, really, but Phil takes pride in the _assurance_ of knowing that some things haven’t really changed.

Except, then, the thing under his foot isn’t round and hard, graphite under his sole. It’s soft, his gangly legs almost slide over it. In this light, he can’t really make out more than the fact that it’s a _sort_ of flyer. It’s dark: he shoves the A5 into his jacket pocket and sniffs at the sudden cold chill.

He wills his optimism to take control, but now, he doesn’t know _how._

 

_-_

 

It’s not like Phil Lester had known he wanted to do photography since he was three, or something. In fact, he thinks, his big life-changing, fate-altering epiphany came quite late in life. More specifically, at age 20 and standing by a pillar at the Manchester Train Station.

(Which is definitely _strange_ but hey, in the life of one Phil Lester, what part of life _isn’t_?)

He hadn’t really been to a train station before, only seen it vaguely in one of the Harry Potter movies. Part of the reason why he’d checked the bannister thoroughly before leaning against it- one practical life lesson he’s learnt.

He fiddles with a small camera in his hand, a present from his Aunt earlier in the day. She’d given him distinct instructions, “Find yourself with this,” a knowing smile gracing her features. She’d known Phil wasn’t particularly interested in his two-year English degree- not with Professor Jameson spouting the same lines of Shakespeare at any given opportunity- within his first few months at university. It’d been a convenient life choice at the time, but, she _knew_ Phil was the furthest from happy. Even if Phil didn’t yet.

He doesn’t know what had drawn him to the train station that particular afternoon. He reckons, _find yourself_ is analyzing other people. Because to Phil Lester, _find yourself_ inherently means _finding what the others have that you_ don’t. _Why they have their lives together and you_ don’t. But maybe it’s the fact that stepping into the train station, with its clanging bells and the laggy notification screens, somehow puts him slightly more at ease than before.

There _are_ lots of people (he isn’t sure why he expected otherwise) in the run-down building, men in suits huffing, old men wheezing. Train stations are strange for housing so many different characters, all with their own specific places to go.

Phil wishes he were that lucky.

Standing by the pillar, his eyes zero into a tall-looking man ( well, _boy_ , from the looks of it) standing by the railway tracks. He’d just gotten off a train from Surrey, Phil thinks , doesn’t get a good look  of anything from the opposite side of rails.

He takes out his camera, knowing vaguely how to zoom into something. More realistically, he presses random buttons until it happens. Either way, he gets a better look at the boy- achieving his intentions anyway.

What strikes him is how _scared_ the boy looks, akin to his own misery over the years, looking around: _lost_ . Not in the literal sense (although that’s true as well, the boy’s eyes pouring over the signages around him), but _lost_ in the very same way Phil is.

It’s then that the boy turns around, his eyes focused on the sign to Phil’s right. He’s squinting, brown hair flopping a little, and if he turns his head a little bit, he’d see the man with the emo haircut and the lens of the camera in his general direction. This sends a nervous thrill down Phil’s spine- Phil, who pretends to look down, stows the camera to his side.

He still steals glances- at ten-second intervals-  at the boy, until now facing him.

Phil’s inexplicably drawn to him, for no particular reason other than _you seem lost, can we be lost together._ He’s hardly going to say that to him- for risk of being _slapped_ across the face- and besides, he’s more than content here, just looking at him.

 _Find yourself, Philly,_ he remembers. And he _has_ found himself, rediscovered himself in a brown-haired boy with the deepest dimples. He’s looking right _at_ him.

Except then, he isn’t- the boy begins dragging his luggage bag in the opposite direction. Phil’s camera hangs heavy in the palm of his right hand. He whips it out, can’t help but snap the setting. Telling a story of this boy; on probably his first trip to Manchester alone, warm in the soft sunlight.  

The pictures come out magnificent, Phil’s a bit transfixed when looking them over again. By the time he looks up, the boy is gone. He whispers a silent thanks.

It’s that night when Phil hears the words: _Maybe you should consider photography, Philly_ . And it feels like the planets align at the very moment, he’s left thinking that this strikes him as too right to ever be _wrong_.

 

-

 

In the shards of morning light through the blinds, Phil Lester thinks he might be hungover despite having not stopped at any pubs the night before. And neither PJ nor Chris are in the vicinity, meaning no beer pongs or ill-advised shots done as well. He shakes his head thoroughly, tries to regain his bearings as he spots his camera left, lens side up, on the table.

He remembers everything in vivid imagery; the rejection, the misery of the previous day. He’s never going to get a job. He’s in this _rut_ that’s, _that’s_ making him want throw his camera promptly out the window in frustration.

He stops mid-blink.

The camera; the one he’s had since twenty in Manchester, the one who’s witnessed the _boy_ in person. The one who’s been patient by his side through break-ups, evening Sun returning to the horizon; watched him grow into the person he is today. _That_ camera. Throw.

It’s the very thought that propels him out of bed, eager to start _working_ again. Anything to get rid of the _horrid_ thoughts; akin to some of killing a sibling.

It’s that morning that he considers a job _outside_ of photography, the desperation mounting. It’s almost the end of the month, he knows plenty of  job offers bloom then. He’s willing to take a shot at _something, somewhere._ There _has_ to be a job for a mid-twenty, lean, decent-looking man, right? He refuses to think of the default that immediately comes to mind.

He rifles through his coat for his ageing phone- one he _promised_ himself he’d replace once things were afloat. He frowns at the distance he has to the _finish line_ , so to speak, and he knows: _he needs to broaden his search._

It’s then that a peculiar looking sheet of paper flutters around in the air for a minute, catches the light of the morning as it settles onto his carpeted flooring. It howers a little before it touches the ground hesitantly. Phil’s far too tired question it, grabs the paper and turns it around.

It reads:

  

> **Position Open: Personal Assistant (of sorts)**
> 
>  
> 
> **Call 08-5677-1243 to enquire.**
> 
>  

And then, in size 7, comic sans at the bottom;

 

> _(needed to print because of crazy club publicist who thinks im not organised enough. only one copy existing so she wouldn’t fillet me lmao if you see this, you’re one lucky person- D.H.)_

 

And in all technicality, luck is exactly what Phil Lester needs right about now. He flips the paper around, feels its substance under his fingertips long enough to ascertain that _no_ , this paper (and offer, probably) is very real and that it won’t self-destruct in under five seconds. He thinks it might, thinking on the few good things that have happened throughout the year: _flukes_ , he’s sure.

Anyway, it’s a worth a shot.

 

-

 

It’s not until much later that he eventually does dial the number, lets it ring _five, six_ times before a gruff voice picks up.  It’s a man, most probably, and he sounds in his mid-fifties, underhanded charisma and an _eagerness to_ _retire_ flitting his tone. Again, Phil can only theorise. This whole situation is as peculiar as it gets.

“G’evening, this is Mark of Oldham Football Club. Who might I be speaking to?”

Okay, _football_? This should’ve been warning sign #1.

Phil clears his throat disdainfully, says, “Er, hi. I’m Phil. I found an- well, there was a flyer- and there’s a position open as a personal assistant somewhere?” Beside him, a pencil teeters on the edge of the table. Quiet surrounds him.

This time, it’s the man who sounds confused. “Right, um, personal _assistant_ ? Not a popular job around _here,_ mate,” the man says, slightly apologetically. “Although, son, there’s been rumours of our coach needin’ someone to help em’ out,” he continues and that, _that_ must be it.

“Yes, um, what might _his_ name be?”

“Y’not from around here then, lad?” the man chuckles into the receiver. “Well, the name’s Dan Howell-” _D.H.,_ Phil surmises excitedly- “-and he’s a bit y’know.” The man eggs him to catch on. But it’s not like he’s this major _fan_ that would get the references. Heck, who this man even _is_ , he doesn’t know.

“Yeah, hah, well-” Phil’s getting impatient. “-who do I meet to get this job then?”

The man’s voice stoops low, conspiratorial. “Tell ya what, come round here tomorrow at about three, and I’ll see what I can do for ya, Philly.”

The line cuts off just as Phil asks, “Where exactly is _here_ then?”

_Great._

 

-

 

PJ comes over that night. It’s his usual _Phil what are you doing with your life_ Friday movie night, that would have Phil slightly distressed if not for the conversation the past afternoon. From where Phil stands, holding the door open, he immediately asks, “Peej, where’s Oldham football club?”

PJ breezes past Phil, tuts at the clothes strewn and the papers lining the edges of the dining table, laughs at the _How to Earn Money! Quick!_ tutorial piece from their local newspaper on top of the pile.

“Evidently not _here-_ ” PJ replies, gesturing at the mess.

Only when Phil glares does PJ raise his hand in mock-surrender, stifle a laugh. “Okay, okay, _blimey_ , someone’s in a bad mood today,” PJ says, makes it sound like he’s talking to a toddler.

“Are you secretly Ron Weasley today, lad,” Phil asks, bemused though slightly irritated by PJ’s indifference to his _burning_ question.

“Always. Anyway, _Oldham,_ you ask?” he ponders aloud, and a few things become clear to Phil; he hadn’t asked the right person, and that _Googling_ it had completely slipped his mind (shameful for a person who relies so heavily on weird _touch-screeny devices,_ as his grandma had so aptly put it), and that telling PJ was a definite _bad idea™_ , as those go.

“You know what, nevermind-” Phil sighs, reaches for his phone.

“No, um, Oldham is about an hour away? And there’s a stadium there, if m’not mistaken- y’know fucking _Muse_ played there once- and why the interest anyway?”

Phil’s face flushes pink. “Um, might’ve a job thing there,” he says, greeted by PJ’s surprised expression. PJ (the _absolute_ drama queen) has his jaw gaping open, and the general reason he’s at Phil’s house genuinely forgotten. “At a _football_ club? Y’sure you haven’t fallen down and hit y’head anywhere, have you?” PJ asks, rushing over to feel Phil’s forehead. As previously said, _dramatic._

“I might try to give it a go?”

“You feel tepid.” PJ says, ignoring him.

“You have your gloves on, that might be it.”

PJ makes a show of taking them off. “Happy? Also, when did you become Mr _Sports-Is-My-Life_ anyway? Last I checked, you couldn’t be bothered if a _shoe_ was atop the Premier League. And you want to, what- _work_ there?”

Phil huffs, waves off PJ’s roaming hand from his forehead.  “I just.  It’s just a job, as _some_ dude’s assistant, whatever.”

PJ looks at him funny.

“Yes, as a _personal_ assistant, before you ask. And, who knows, it might be _fun_ ,” Phil says dully, picks at a piece of thread from his T-shirt. He’s a bit _deflated_ , so to speak. Any thoughts of himself ever working at a bloody _sports_ club, of all places, thrown promptly out the window. He should stop trying so hard.

“Man, I’m _knackered_ .” PJ practically whispers, falls backwards onto the sofa bed with a loud thwack. PJ is silent a moment. “And photography? Is that not a _thing_ anymore?”

“I’d like to say that I’m on a brief _hiatus_ ,” Phil says honestly, runs his fingers through his fringe and tugs his hair ( _painfully_ so, by the looks of it).

“Don’t get me wrong, Phil, you should go and try out this football thing if you like,” he assures his friend, who looks like he might be having a coronary, right there, in his dining room. Not the best start to movie night, evidently.

“Yeah?”

“You’ll _get_ the job, that’s not what this conversation is about. It’s the matter of figuring out if you _really_ want it, that’s all.”

“I don't know if I’d _want_ it but I definitely _need_ it, Peej. Look at me, look at _this_ ,” Phil tells PJ and he takes a slow walk around his living room, sighing at each messy crevice. His radiator is broken, again. His tv set is a minute away from spontaneously combusting. Not the _best_ sight, they both know.

“You’re right, you’re _right_ . You’ll be such a great personal assistant to a coach of your _least_ favourite sport! You’ll be in the _Daily Mail_ before y’know it!” PJ says, winks, and it elicits a small grin from Phil because subtextually, PJ is right: _things are looking up._

 

-

 

It’s weird; Phil hadn’t really pondered the idea of _not_ actually getting the aforementioned job in the first place.

All his thoughts, the barely-there conversation with PJ, had centered around this assured knowledge that he’d already made the cut. That the job was miraculously his for the taking (despite not knowing who he worked for, what the job entailed, yadda, yadda) without a shadow of a doubt. Maybe it came with the wonky conclusion that he’d gotten the _only_ flyer announcing the position was even up for grabs (if he takes this _D.H._ ’s post-script at face value), meaning he’d technically be the _only_ person up for the job.

But, was there _even_ a job open at all? That wasn’t very clear to begin with.

Phil stops right in front of the stadium, mind whirring with doubts and dwindling possibilities; something he should’ve thought of before driving over an hour (in his beat-up car, mind you) to a town slightly less foreign that he was expecting.

(Oldham is _old_ (pun intended); Phil’s read about it in some history book somewhere, but the area doesn’t show it. In fact, Phil thinks it possibly looks more modern than good ol’ _Rossendale_ (which definitely is a plus where Phil’s concerned), with its high-rise buildings and multiple-storey flats. But, the deeper Phil drives into Oldham, he paradoxically sees the familiar core of beauty spread deeper and further. Buildings grow old in aesthetic, old tea shops litter the roads: quaint and gorgeous.)

He’s driven too far to even start reconsidering his decision; he gets out without a second thought, trudges his way into the fairly large stadium (probably could seat 30, _40_ thousand fans, Phil can imagine). On the front, in big, bold letters, it reads: _Oldham FC- Where Dreams Are Made_.

Phil can only hope it is the same for him.

He is directed to the office building at the back, and there is a slightly pudgy man manning the desk, furiously answering calls left and right. _Mr- Retiring-Soon,_ Phil bets, and  the man shoots him an apologetic smile, writes quickly on his notepad.

He soon puts down the phone.

“Right, busy day, huh?” he asks rhetorically, shrugs his shoulders in a _what can you do?_ motion. “I’m Mark. How can I help, son?” the man asks him, and _right,_ he’s here for business. “Um, yeah- I’m Phil? Like yesterday’s Phil?” he tells the man, gesturing to himself stupidly (the man’s only heard his _voice_ , for god’s sake) before letting his hands drop.

“Ah, ah, Phil! You’re here for that position, right?”

His answer isn’t processed because he’s suddenly being shepherded into this large desk-y area, a dozen computers with football matches lined up against each other. There are match statistics on a large screen to their left, complete with two men arguing and pushing some virtual players across the screen. Framed jerseys occupy the walls, trophies in a glass cupboard.

An _actual_ successful club office, Phil thinks, aghast.

“He’s through there, to your left. G’d luck, mate,” Mark says, clapping him on the back expectantly. Like he _belongs_ in here. Phil’s terrified but walks on anyway, determined to get the interview over and out of his head for _good._

He walks straight- then, wait, _left_ ? _Right?_ In his fear-fueled delirium, he’d forgotten what Mark had said before leaving. _Goddamnit, Phil_. He berates himself all the way to the middle of the corridor, unbeknownst that another figure was walking equally as fast from his left and -

-well, _bang._

Phil feels coffee seep through his pant leg, papers strewn across the carpeted flooring (making his fall a bit more _bearable_ , at least) and a very, _very_ angry-looking man hovering over him. Like Godzilla at Tokyo, or the iceberg to the fucking Titanic.

“S-so sorry, mate, I wasn’t looki-”

“What the flying  _fuck_ ? Where the _fuck_ is your spacial awareness. _Wait-_ who are _you_ ?” the man cuts him off, points an accusatory finger at Phil. _Okay, not the best start,_ Phil would admit, but his clumsiness is mostly accidental in _certain_ circumstances and this guy is overreacting and basically just being a complete dick. He huffs.

“I’m here for a job interview with the _manager_ , you prick. Now, if you would kindly show me the way to his office, that’ll be all _jolly_ good-” Hah, suck it loser. He probably feels a bit too accomplished.

Except, this man has this sly, wicked grin on his face when he says, “Right, well, follow me.” It comes much to Phil’s surprise, ego inflating slightly. The man helps him up, even _dusts_ his shirt for him, and leads him to this big-ish room deep in the left corner of the  building.  The man doesn’t knock before entering ( _odd_ but maybe he works for the guy?) and waits for Phil to enter before shutting the door completely.

“But there’s no one-” Phil starts but then the man takes the seat opposite him, at the main fucking table, and oh, _oh, shit._

Phil’s nervous giggles in realisation flutter across the room and promptly shatter into a million pieces. The tension in the room could be cut with a butter knife, served to a dozen people if they wanted. Which is all good and well for everyone except Phil, who has somehow managed to piss off his potential _employer_ within five minutes of even being in the facility.

“Hah, um. G-g-good evening, sir. My name’s Phil. Phil Lester, um. Sorry about earlier,” he hears himself saying, though he isn’t very _sorry_ at all. He hopes it comes off genuine enough. He needs the job more than this petty feud.

“ _Right_ , well, sorry to break it to you but, there is no job available here, dunno where you heard that. None, none at _all_ , amigo, so you can see yourself out,” the man tells him dismissively, goes back to devouring the papers on his desk. The desk with the namecard; _Dan Howell, Manager of Oldham FC_ to its right corner. Jesus fucking Christ.

It makes it all so _real,_ all of a sudden. Like, this is the _manager_ and he’s telling you there are no jobs available. And that your hopes and dreams are shattered. Most definitely. You’re dumb for even trying. Phil’s overthinking this. But, here’s the thing, right;

 

  1. Premise 1: If he did protest, made a scene here at this fancy football club- it wouldn’t make much of a difference as he won’t be seeing any of them again anyway.
  2. Premise 2: Even If he did mess up big time, he’d just have to go back to being miserable 24/7. Which technically _is_ the worst case scenario, but he can live with that.
  3. Basically; Phil hasn’t got much to _lose_.



 

“There _is_ a job! I found a flyer with your annotations on it!” he pulls the worn paper out of his coat pocket. Dan looks up at that and stares at the flyer. His jaw gapes open a bit.

“How did you fucking find it, Jesus Christ, I printed only _one_ \- anyway, bottom line, it wasn’t _meant_ for you.” And ouch, that stings a bit. Especially for a person who believes in fate and destiny, like Phil.

“But I _did_ find it, and I need the job,” Phil says, a bit too desolate for his own liking. “I’m a photographer by trade but that hasn’t been panning out for me, _obviously_ ,” he laughs derisively.

“Well, that isn’t _my_ problem now, is it?” Dan asks, all snide and smirking. His eyebrows reaching his hairline and he looks bemused, if anything else. The dimple in his cheek slightly visible and slightly familiar.

Phil looks up, straight at him.

“Is this a _game_ to you? It’s my livelihood, for God’s sake, and _you_ somehow have the right to outstretch the shiny gold watch and then take back your hand whenever you want?” Phil half-shouts, and he’s sure there’s a bulging vein somewhere on his face.

His sort of irrational anger must strike a chord with the man, he can see Dan rethinking his decision, hand reaching forward to sip at what’s left of his coffee in a small Hello Kitty mug. He looks contemplative; which is good, Phil has a _chance_.

“If _hypothetically_ there was a job open- although, I _don’t_ need another fool roaming around this place,” Dan hastens to add, “-it would only be as a helper through the coming few matches,” Dan tells him and Phil is a bit dumbfounded, and looks it.

“Matches in what exactly, sir?”

“For God’s sake, Lester, the _Manchester Cup_?”

Phil raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, sorry, this _isn’t_ going to work, at all, evidently,” Dan mumbles, suddenly three phones around his office chiming at once. _Busy guy_ , Phil thinks, as he watches Dan- _Mr Howell?_ Must his subconcious be work-appropriate as well?- fumble around with the devices, cursing under his breath.

 _Fuck, there’s a meeting now?,_ he hears the man mumble.

“Need some help there?” Phil asks, bemused. Dangerous waters he’s treading, he’s well aware, so he smiles politely when Dan turns to glare at him.

“ _No_ , well, okay-” Dan sighs again, “-you have a one week probationary period, and if you so much as _toe_ out of line, I will promptly retract this offer.” Dan says, as menacing as a desperate man would sound, extends a hand.

“Deal.” Phil shakes it.

And he has a job? Barely? For a week? Even so, it would seem, _yes_ , things are beginning to look up.


	2. Dua

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first week at work doesn't go as swimmingly as Phil would've liked. Or, in other words, Dan hates him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thought I should probably update faster if i wanted to finish this fic before school started back up again in january. enjoy :))) + this is unbeta-ed so let me know if there are any mistakes, thanks!

 

By the end of his first day of work (Phil can’t help but squeal whenever he thinks about the actual _money_ rolling into his bank account), it becomes very apparent to him how _important_ this Manchester Cup really is. In fact, it’s what all of them talk about.

(Which, after all,  shouldn’t surprise him in the least. Maybe he’s _still_ a little shell-shocked that he’s working for a _football_ club? That’s it.)

Case in point; he’d just gotten off the phone with three cup coordinators about match times, squad lists and ordered jerseys specific to the upcoming games. All of which was lost on him, but he hopes he jotted down the important points? The _entire_ transcript more like.

He stares at the notepad in front of him, asks Mark about what Dan meant when he said, “Prep them for shadow play.”

“Son, you’ve got a lot to learn,” Mark had said, which hadn’t answered the question at all. He shoves quickly the notepad into his pocket, grips a cup of coffee in his right hand, and makes his way to the giant pitch in the middle.

_He’s late._

The footballers are lined up on the field, white t-shirts, shorts with knee-high socks, and eye him curiously as he approaches Dan in the middle.

As if sensing his arrival, Dan turns, sighs. “What did I say about _prepping_ them beforehand?” he asks, and Phil wills himself to ignore the innuendo completely.

“Yeah, _about_ that-” Phil mumbles, looks not quite apologetic enough for Dan to dismiss the fault. “One strike down, Mr Lester, dunno how much longer you’ll be here for,” the man says, baleful, words clipped and soft enough for only Phil’s ears. The organs now tinged pink in embarrassment.

“Besides, the boys have already prepped themselves, haven’t they? Three laps round the field, sprints in twenty second intervals-” Dan asks aloud and there’s a murmur of agreement. Phil should _really_ be taking these things down. “Lunges, a hundred sit-ups, and all that.”

“Sounds like _torture_ to me,” Phil jokes, very _stupidly_ so- and the others, to their credit, laugh ironically. Small chuckles hover in front of their coach, whom they won’t really look directly in the eye. They’re _terrified_ of Dan, it would seem.

 _Dan_ , the six-foot gangly _man-child_ with dimples, who has probably as much hand-eye coordination as Phil does (technically their collision the day before was as much _Dan’s_ fault as it was his own).

Phil wants to laugh at their apprehension.

But suddenly, the whole idea doesn’t seem _that_ ludicrous. Not when Dan’s two inches from Phil and staring him down, a fist clenched in his shirt and he’s being lifted off the ground . Brown meets blue, sizzles upon impact.

(It suddenly feels like he’s back in the _Great Bar Face-Off_ from 2008, some dude having him in this _exact_ situation over allegedly making _eyes_ at his girlfriend. It’s not _his_ fault she had a captivating fox tattoo across her chest, is it?)

Dan shakes him mid-air.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be working at a football club, then?” Dan says, words twisting heavily in the pale mid-afternoon sun and they hang in the air. Long enough for Phil to understand _exactly_ why Mark had wished him luck- possible tinge of _fear_ in his eyes- when he first found out he was Dan’s new assistant. How Rebecca from HR had shot him an apologetic wince when she’d read Phil’s acceptance letter, and who he’d be working for.

Dan is far scarier than violent-bar-dude, by a longshot.

“ _Fuck off_ -” Phil hears before being let out of Dan’s grip, and he makes his way to the stands, cursing himself for a lack of filter. Looking self-sacrificing up at the bright blue sky, he knows he has to bring this back somehow- _salvage_ this situation before he gets fired in record time.  

Dan’s voice booms across the stadium; rings loud, intense.

 _A gargantuan task_ , it occurs to him.

 

-

 

The rest of the day is spent on the stands, Phil shifting in his seat uncomfortably. For two separate reasons; Dan’s looming presence and his ass going gradually numb from sitting down. He takes some time to sort out Dan (and the team’s) schedule for the next month, wishing his organising skills weren’t that of a chimpanzee- god, he should’ve thought about this extensively before applying for this job.

A planner sits snug in his lap, and he uses his best handwriting when noting down practice dates, warm-up times and etcetera. Three phones lie on the seat next to him.

“Lester-” he hears Dan’s voice say, and Phil’s momentarily startled that he almost drops his coloured pens onto the cement below him. Dan chuckles a bit, maybe- the weird _rumble_ doesn’t really sound like anything at all.

“At your service, sir,” Phil says eagerly, squints a bit at Dan who stands surrounded by pale evening light. It’s a bit mesmerizing, if he’s being honest.

“Nah, I mean- _Dan’s_ fine, um. What are you doing?” Dan asks, politely enough, almost like the façade of _mean-boss-man_ fading with the weariness of sunlight. It sounds far less frightening than the one he had uttered upon their first meet. Not that Phil’s complaining, not one bit.

His stomach still twists.

“Figuring out the complex world of _scheduling_ -” Phil says, gesturing at the stationary and calendars surrounding him. “As it happens, you have a meeting with the club owners tomorrow at ten, and they want a full analysis on your last game against Ordsall. After that, a meeting with the second team coach about something called _zonal marking_ \- which I can help with if-”

Dan groans midway, takes the empty seat to Phil’s left.

“Sir- _Dan_ \- have I done something wrong?” Trepidation fills him as he looks over the notes again to triple-check.

“No, _no_ , it’s just. Nevermind-” Dan traces patterns with his shoe across gravel. He looks _sad_? Maybe at Phil’s inability to plan meetings well?

Phil doesn’t think he’s on the level to pry further, lets the matter rest hesitantly. Soon, they sit in a companionable silence, Phil tapping away on the phone to refresh for new messages and also _discreetly_ check on his house of cats in _Neko Atsume_ . This is being _a hundred percent_ professional, he’s sure.

“Do you ever feel sometimes that you’re in over your head?” Dan’s question startles the amicable silence.

“Most of the time,” Phil answers honestly, his predicament flitting around his head. He’d never set out to be anyone’s assistant, he was just a lowly photographer looking for a job. Being _here_ was never in the works, and now that it is, Phil feels a bit like he’d been thrown in the deep end.

Lost in thought, he almost doesn’t feel it when Dan gathers his things, gets up promptly. “Hey, thanks for, um. Doing this for m- the _club_ . I never would’ve realised I needed help with these things if you hadn’t come along, hah-” Dan rambles in lieu of a _sorry about picking you up and shaking you like a rag doll earlier._ Phil feels strangely warm on the inside.

“I could say the same to you. I’ll always be thankful for this opportunity, even if I get fired tomorrow or something- wait, _not_ tomorrow, right?” Phil says and revels in the first short, genuine laugh he earns from the man.

Dan smiles. “Bye, Phil.”

 

-

 

Two mornings later, Phil is late (this should be the tagline to his future biopic, Phil thinks later).

“ _PHIL_! What the fuck, I needed you here thirty minutes ago!” Dan half-shouts, at a poor bumbling Phil, who’s embarrassingly stuck in the revolving door. Coffee spills over the edge of its cup as Phil struggles to push forward the metal rod in front of him.

Dan comes quick to the rescue, saves the coffee first- _predictably so_ \- and holds open the door for Phil, who’s quick to say, “Sorry, sorry, stuck on the M60. Some jerk left _livestock_ on the road. The _perks_ of living about an hour away, I figure,” Phil says apologetically, shrugs the rainwater collecting on his jacket.

“I feel more sorry for the goat,” Dan deadpans and Phil struggles to not shoot his boss an unimpressed look. “And don’t make _this_ a habit. Lucky you briefed me on our meetings for the day ‘else I would’ve been late for the fucking _board meeting_ , Christ, Phil,” Dan tells him before starting to make the walk back to his office.

Phil tries to match his stride the best he can but _damn_ , does this guy walk fast. _Comes with being a football bigshot_ , Phil thinks, as he’s half-panting up the corridor.

 _Bigshot_ , he says, because Oldham, as it turns out, is one of the _premier_ clubs in Manchester, according to Mark and two-hour Google searches. The trophies displayed in the office area only a fraction of the victories they’ve achieved, half of those whilst under Michael Howell, Dan’s father. Apparently, at one point, they were _as_ popular as _Manchester United_ (the _only_ club Phil’s heard of, thus, proving its wide reach- or, as far as pretend-emo teenagers up in Rossendale).

To date, Oldham has won three Manchester Cups and this year, they’re in the Quarters. Their next game is against Bolton Football Club at the Macron- possibly the reason why Dan’s been working his players to the bone this past week. He’s heard the grumbles, but has kept them to himself. Dan doesn’t really need more things to worry about.

“Phil- are ya listening?” he asks, and Phil’s shaken out of his reverie. “Um, sorry?”

Dan sucks in a deep breath. “I _said_ all the coaches are involved in a meet later, so, we need you to handle training for the time being. Got that?”

And, okay, Phil isn’t prepared for this at all. Like, what is football? How do you _do_ football? Of course, he still nods sheepishly at Dan, ignoring his raging internal battle. “ _Sure,_ um. What do you need me to do _exactly_?”

Dan looks pleased. “Right, practice free kicks today, we need Johnson- the tall, blonde one- to man the goal today, he needs a bit more practice. Make sure they do that man-to-man marking that we decided on. You stand by the pitch and watch for any offside offences, you can get the flag in the backroom-”

 _Woah, woah,_ what the hell? Things that he commits to memory start fading instantaneously, so, he repeats them in his head. _Free kinks?, offside, Johnson do_ something _, flag._ Before he knows it, Dan’s left, door shutting behind him.

He rushes out of the room soon after that- only to find the desk area empty, not a single person occupying the computers or arguing about some _El Clásico_ game from ten years ago.

Mark is not at his spot, probably not in for his shift yet. Sophie, the brown-haired, petite new employee, is at the front desk and hardly seems like she has time to entertain his stupid questions. Fucking hell.

Phil steels himself as he trudges to the players breakroom, a little relieved to find them all huddled up and ready to go. The captain- _Jerome_ (maybe)- smiles when he sees Phil approach the team. “Ah, Mr Boss’ Right-hand Man! How ya doing, Lester?” he tells Phil, who grimaces painfully in return. _Not too well, maybe-Jerome, can I barf all over you?_

“Yeah, good,” comes out instead. “Mr Boss Man has given me tasks to complete, gentlemen-” he hopes they don’t notice his voice break off, “- he’s asked you guys to practice those _free_ somethings?” he says. Then, he cringes at his own professionalism (if he had any to begin with).

But, the seasoned players look _excited_ all of a sudden. They nod in earnest.

“-and, he said I have to check the _off-_ ”

He knows he’s made a mistake when they start _whooping_ , cheering. One player even hoists Phil up onto his shoulders, parade him around like he’s a sort of saviour. _What?_

“Guys! Coach Howell gave us _free_ time! We’re _off_ for the day!” Jerome shouts out excitedly, and he hears claps of agreement from the substitutes resting their legs in the hot pool. Whoops heard from as far as the _cleaning_ guys, folding jerseys on the rack.

Eventually, he gets put down gently enough, the man thumping Phil on the back while he’s at it.

 _Oh god, oh god, there are people_ leaving- _Dan’s going to skin me!_ Phil thinks in a haze of panic, but isn’t at all cognizant on ways to stop about a dozen muscular men from rushing out of a small room. A _stampede._ Nice as they are (they all pat Phil’s back in gratitude as they leave), it’s doing _nothing_ to quell the overwhelming nausea Phil’s experiencing.

Phil has no clue what to do- not without breaking _most_ of his bones.

So,  he sinks down the lockers in the break room and onto the cold floor, stuffs his face into his hands and tries to breathe evenly. _Is this what tachycardia feels like_? His thoughts are muddled and he doesn’t know if he’s quite in reality at the present moment. Probably a sign of his impending doom, spelling the end of his footballing _career_ (of sorts), Phil concludes.

He shifts further to burrow into the solid behind him, wishing it to absorb him whole.

 

-

 

The shelling Phil gets that afternoon is enough to make his head spin a dozen times over. He shudders violently as he recounts the definite _out of body experience_ to PJ over the phone. The sky is gloomy above him. Appropriate for the situation, Phil thinks.

“Dan kept _yelling_ and then one of the coaches was like, _this dude doesn’t belong here_ \- which was stupid because I was standing _right_ there like. _There_.”

“ _There_ ,” PJ monotones.

“Stop being a dick, it's not a good look on you. And the worst part, the absolute _worst,_  Peej, right- some bald dude was like _Lester’s only here because of his sob story, he doesn’t really_ do _anything at all,_ and Dan, the fucking ass- who I’ve been helping this past week, mind you- doesn’t _defend_ me, not one bit!-”

“You did hear me the first time I said this whole football thing would be a _bad_ idea, right?” PJ tells him and Phil huffs, grumbles over the phone.

He _does_ remember, of course, but PJ doesn’t give particularly good advice- so it wasn’t _Phil’s_ fault for not listening. And, anyway- “No, you _didn’t_ say I shouldn’t have applied! You asked if I _wanted_ the job or I didn’t-” Phil says defiantly, the line crackling a bit.

“Yes, _point,_ and you told me that you _needed_ it. That trumps everything else. So, put down the phone and get back to work, why don’t you?” the voice over the phone says, calm. And PJ maybe has good advice, _sometimes_. Phil nods, chin bumping against the screen of his phone.

Phil thinks about it as he puts down his giant _pity-me_ sandwich he’d bought earlier, does a perfunctory clean of his hands over the soft denim of his jeans. It occurs to him. “Technically, Dan _hasn’t_ fired me- at least not officially- and there’s no way in _hell_ that I’m going to prove everyone’s point and _quit_ this stupid job, so-”

“ _Phil-o_ , not criticism, but, maybe get to your big _mega life-altering agenda_ thingy a bit quicker? I have class right about now.”

_That fucker._

“Oh, I’m just going to be the _best_ fucking assistant Dan Howell has ever had, of course.”

 

-

 

As it turns out, proving his worth to the staff of Oldham Football Club is entirely more difficult than previously thought. The fact that Rossendale is- at least statistically- the only other football club to have any good chance of beating Oldham in the Manchester Cup doesn’t help his case, unsurprisingly so.

The run-ins he’s had with the staff over these past few days have confirmed his initial notion that Mark might be the only nice guy at the office. “The other guys just gotta _warm up_ t’ya, that’s all,” Mark had told him jauntily, when Phil had ambled over to his desk the next morning. Mark reminds him of his Dad, probably the most reassuring quality about him. Other than his perpetual _50s_ outfit. That’s nice as well.

Except, then, there are people like this:

“Ya’ scouting out our players for ya measly squad, eh?” one of the coaches- _bald Jerald_ \- asks him, just as he’s fetching Dan some coffee from the downstairs café.

(“That Jerald guy is a complete _dick_ I tell ya,” Mark had also told him before. “Thinks that somehow having no hair makes ‘em smarter than the lot of us. _Bull_ , I say.”  And Phil hadn’t really thought much about it other than the fact that Mark _swearing_ might be the most badass thing he’s ever heard.

Basically; now he gets it, _completely_.)

Phil tries to suppress the urge to roll his eyes, reassure Jerald that _no, I like football as I like your haircut- nonexistent. ayyyy-_ because that will evidently add fuel to the fire, give them all another bloody reason to hate him. So, he smiles, takes his coffee and then _accidentally_ elbows the hot pot over Jerald’s waiting hand.

Subtle ways of asserting dominance; Mum and Dad would be proud.

He soon realises that the staff have unfortunately acquired _further_ ammunition to be on his case. The incident of the previous afternoon already making its rounds in the office. They (Jerald at the helm, no doubt) collectively cast a glare in Phil’s direction whenever he steps into meeting rooms, clears the shelves in the documents office.

“Not done here, are ya-” another guy spits at him, disparaging, “- don’t appreciate ya _sabotaging_ our players, Philly boy,” he continues, supercilious tone wrapping his words like cotton wool.

“‘Course, I’m just this _mastermind_ of football, aren’t I?” Phil retorts, mimicking a penalty kick (something he’s just only learnt barely an hour ago) and whistling like he’d just _hit one out of the park._ And, wait-

_That’s just it._

Like a dozen light bulbs switching on at once, Phil feels things in life piece together interestingly, reveal a pattern that Phil can decipher now and suddenly, he knows _exactly_ what to do about the situation. The most _primal_ of stratagems he’s been unconsciously avoiding (didn’t Michael Jackson write a song about this?) since starting the job; give the club little to fault him on by- well,  by _fixing_ what he’s done wrong in the first place.

He leaves Gerald #2- still spewing little digs at Phil- confused, uttering profanities. And Phil somehow _knows_ he’ll be eating up his words soon enough.

 

-

 

That night, Phil buys a dozen books- titles all variations of _Dummies Guide to Football (a.k.a. the literal easiest game ever, you idiot)_ \- with his depleting monetary resources. He looked mighty weird at the bookshop- he’d basically emptied out the entire section of books, the ones that look like they’ve been silently sitting for a decade.

But in his head, it’ll all be worth it when _he_ eventually supplies intelligent suggestions at Mission Control (the area where team coaches meet and subsequently argue for an hour, it feels like) on different aspects of play.

(Or at least that’s what he’s hoping; he hasn’t been able to get round to finishing a book in ages. And a dozen books on football? God bless.)

The minute he gets home, he plops himself on the couch and randomly picks out a book out from the pile. It is the thickest book, as it turns out, and Phil groans internally. Not the best start to this reading session, clearly, and Phil takes some time to clear his head. By that, he means:  he makes some warm English tea.

Productivity slightly higher, Phil surveys the content in the book, eyes skipping over unusual terms and foreign illustrations. He immediately picks out the _free kick_ pages. He pours over them like his life depended on it; some words stick near his frontal lobe, others go swiftly out his backside. But, in time, Phil learns the distances at which free kicks are made. The walls that go up to block them.

He tries to connect those facts to what he’s seen from Dan’s practices and things seem to start making sense. Or as much sense as Phil Lester can honestly handle. He understands now when Dan shouts, _Offside!_ , in varying states of anger throughout practice sessions. Because that would mean that a goal in an offside position would get _discredited_ ? _Disqualified_?

He rereads that part.

Engrossed, he doesn’t realise it when the clock strikes two in the morning and the bloody loud mockingbirds- awake too _early_ for their own good, tbh- start chirping incessantly. The eerie silence of the night usually of no problem to nocturnal Phil- but after all he’s processed that night, he goes to bed; sound and dreamless.

 

-

 

The next morning, Phil meanders into the stadium ten minutes early. Call it wishful thinking, but Phil thinks it’ll be a good day today (what he now constitutes as _good:_ not getting shouted at by Dan, the office café serving their strawberry doughnuts for tea). He clutches coffee for Dan in his right hand.

Sophie greets him with a bright smile- which slowly turns to a grimace when Phil looks up. “ _Oof_ , Phil, up late last night?” she says, taking in the grey rings under Phil’s eyes. He’d worn his glasses so that _no_ one would notice, goddamnit. 

“Hahah- yeah, up playing uh, _Zelda_ -” Phil bluffs then- not quite sure if he should show off his football prowess just yet. Not when he only barely knows the basics. No one would be much impressed if he only spewed out hardline facts. The stuff most seven year-olds probably have _already_ learnt, he realises.

He suddenly isn’t very proud of himself anymore.

“A video game fiend as well? Wow, just when I didn’t think you could get more _attractive_ -” he thinks he hears Sophie mumbling then, shaking him out of his reverie.

“What?”

“Oh, _nothing_ , um. I just got you _coffee_? The mocha one you always order from that Starbucks down the road-” She hands him the steaming cup and Phil makes sure to brush her hand as he takes it, a wordless thanks.

“How thoughtful of you! Actually forgot my membership card today, actually- the fact that I have a card with _ten thousand_ points in it says a lot about me-” Phil jokes, and Sophie laughs hard. Her eyes twinkle a bit too much.

Phil squeaks.

“Oh, right, running late! Good to see you, Sophie! Thanks for the coffee!” he says, rushes off. He barely has time to catch her _anytime!_ said with complete conviction. As he runs, he nearly bumps into Dan, walking out of Coach Martin’s office at the corner.

“ _Déjà vu_ seems to be a recurring theme in this relationship,” Dan laughs, clutching Phil’s shoulders for the both of them to regain some balance. His palms are warm against Phil’s thin shirt, his eyes a mere two inches away.

“Well, that’s what you get when the universe throws together the two clumsiest people in a tiny office space,” Phil retorts nonchalantly, steps back to brush over his clothes.

“And I got you coffee, by the way. Couldn’t get you one from _ye old_ Starbucks-” he explains, hands Dan his small, crappy _macchiato_ from a shop in urban Oldham.

“And _that_ is?” he gestures towards the very obvious half-full Starbucks cup (Phil really _is_ a genius, isn’t he?) in Phil’s right hand. The one that smells _three_ times better than anything else in proximity.

Phil flushes pink, fumbles with it. “Right, um. Sophie bought it for me, um. She didn’t know I couldn’t get one from Starbucks for you so, only...one.” Phil finishes lamely.

There’s a line next to Dan’s mouth, slight frown forming. _Sophie_?”

“Receptionist? Brown-haired, pretty?” There’s no way in hell that Dan doesn’t know who she is exactly. He _has_ passed her a couple of times on his way out.

“Oh.” Dan frowns some more. “Yeah, of course. Sophie. _Sophie_. Phil.” he sounds like he’s trying to test the words out on his tongue. Which is very confusing to say the least. Dan’s tapping his leg against the floorboard like when he’s impatient- or he’s trying to figure something out.

Phil settles for the former. “Hey, did you want this?” He holds out the Starbucks, smiles at the small grin Dan adorably has on. He looks at the cup and then back at Phil.

“No, no, that’s fine. Sophie meant it for _you_.” Dan seems to switch _on_ all of a sudden. “ _Hurry_ , we have lots of work to do! We need team names, that representative from Pepsi called about their sponsorship agreement-” He power walks in the opposite direction.

Phil takes a deep breath and follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiii i think i know somewhat where this story is going (HALLELUJAH) but i am always up for suggestions/comments here or on [tumblr](http://phanetixs.tumblr.com) so, let me know! :)
> 
> (and I am lamentably not British so I genuinely apologize for any inaccuracies in terms of my depictions of the English people, culture, football, etc.!!)


	3. Tiga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then, they are friends (- _ish?_ ) or as much friend as the Assistant Rulebook allows. Soon, there is football but also some tension brewing, which Phil would pick up on if he wasn't _that_ oblivious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh ok quickly let me just say thank you so so much to everyone who has left such nice comments on this fic (haven't gotten around to replying but i will!) and hope you like this chapter!
> 
> (also ive realised that posting the thing that you've been worrying about for days brings such relief) -- enjoy!

Over the next few weeks, Phil gets to know the players of Oldham FC more than he technically needs to. For example, Phil knows about Jerome’s- the captain who unknowingly started the _rout_ the other day- athlete’s foot in more vivid detail that he’d ever hoped. (“Mate, I haven’t even _started_ on my- he beckons Phil closer, whispers, “ _-hernia_ yet, that’ll be another day.” And Phil doesn’t stop shuddering till five hours later.)

He’d met York-born Chris next, who is ironically one of the few actual Northern players in Dan’s squad. Chris’ funny, has his fringe swept in the same direction as Phil’s- but, cursed like an absolute sailor. ( _Who ate my fucking brownie that was in that goddamn sport bag. Cocksuckers, you guys are)_. Still, he wasn’t that bad, he made good tea, at least.

Then, it’d been Malaysian transplant, Chong, who’d looked about a foot shorter than the others in the squad but had apparently been the best striker Malaysia has ever produced. “No _lah_ , genetically I am short but as the people say, the shortest people have the most to offer, _kan_?” he’d told Phil; confused English graduate Phil, who then assumes the saying to be a Malay one. He nods his head politely, Chong offers an gratified grin.

He gets together with the others over drinks one night, in a bar across the road from the stadium. _McLaren’s_ , it’s called, and the old-looking stout bartender waves at the players as they come in. “Lads! Big day this weekend, ain’t it? Bolton’s going to be one heck of a fight!” he shouts at them over the loud booming songs coming from the jukebox. Phil hasn’t been at a bar in _ages_ , not since _university_.

And all he remembers from that is the _Great Bar Fight_.

So, Phil is nervous, to say the least.

“Ey, man! Who’s this?” the bartender- _that’s Greg Mclaren, owner of this place so don’t piss him off, yeah?_ Jerome had whispered- asks the group, claps Phil on the back. He has a genuine toothy smile on his face, wrapping an arm over Phil’s shoulders.

Phil is two minutes away from exploding in embarrassment. _So much for lowkey, Phil, great job._

“Greg, meet Phil from Rawtenstall! This lad o’er here is Danny boy’s _assistant_ ,” the other first team coach, Patrick, tells the bartender man. And unfortunately, he looks about a click away from hoisting Phil up on his shoulders, introducing him as his first visitor from _outside_ Oldham. Save Chong, who’s probably half-British at this point anyway.

“My _man_! Working for the big guy himself! How’s he like? Not givin’ you any trouble, is he?”

(To be frank, Dan hasn’t been much nicer to Phil than when he’d started. _Like_ , Phil wants to say, _he gives those fucking glares like you’re the stupidest person on the planet. And the last time I’d offered some help in training, he shot me down like a high-fucking-speed bullet._ Which, to be fair, the basic analogy to the situation is like Phil’s grandma offering him tips on photography. So, he gets it, but _still._ What has Phil done to deserve all the douchebaggery,  _really_.)

A concise summary of the past few weeks: “Um.”

“Yeh, heard the lad’s a bit _rough_ on yer’ team. Not to worry tho’, son. It’ll pass soon enough- that Daniel is a _nice_ boy, yer’know?” Greg tells him, a slight twinkle in his eye. “He never lived here, only moved a couple of years ago. Up from Reading, that boy. His father, _ol’ Mikey,_ loved this club more than _anything-_ Dan and his famileh’ included, y’know-”

Phil nods, trying to digest as much information as possible.

“Yeh, the oldest son- _Adrian_ , I think?- was closest to ‘em and he was gonna take over for when Mikey retired. Like they had the contract set and everything. And then-”

The bell on the other side of the bar rings. A customer stands impatiently at the corner. “Fucking hell, the people here I _swear_ to ya-” Greg says apologetically, swings a piece of cloth over his shoulder and tips his head in Phil’s direction. “Tell me if ya want another beer, ok?”

And a beer is the thing Phil least wants in this present moment, his curiosity on tenterhooks. He watches as Greg traipses over to the customer, throws Phil another cursory glance. In all honesty, Phil wants any information or backstory Greg would offer him, since the odds of him getting _any_ out of Dan is probably on the same level as watching pigs fly. He won’t hold his breath.

Maybe he’d unearth the core of why exactly Dan Howell just _has_ to be a dick at all times of the day? Yep, a treasure chest of information waiting to be discovered.

He glances sideways to the rest of the crew, all laughing boisterously at Matt- strong, buff left-back Matt- chug down a pint of beer in less than twenty seconds. Phil winces _for_ him, has half a mind to remind him that they _actually_ have training tomorrow. Sharp at 9 a.m. Phil thinks it’s professional that he has their entire schedule memorized, at least _something_ he’s doing the least bit right. Wish Dan could see him now.

 _Speak of the devil and the devil shall appear_.

The small entrance bell attached to the front door jingles. Dan meanders through it. Phil tries to rub away what must be his imagination (or he’s _hallucinating_ , maybe? He’s more than a few beers in at this point.) Still, there is a very real Dan Howell- in his true all-black apparel- unknotting his scarf and taking a seat by the players.

They jump up and high-five him, a surprisingly clear distinction between _Manager Dan_ and _Friend Dan_ shown in the gesture: Dan smiling at each one of them, snarkily tells Jerome to _stop bringing the guys to the bar in hopes of one of you getting laid._ The team is in uproar.

“We _all_ know that the only person who gets laid from this point on is _you_ , Dan,” one of the guys, Dublin-born Sam says. And the others heckle, clap Dan on the back and ask Greg for beers all round. This includes Phil; Phil who tries to shrink into the bar stool and avoid Dan completely. And he’s sure Dan hasn’t seen him- his back facing where Dan waltzed in- so, he’s in the clear.

Come to think of it, Dan objectively is pretty _fit_ for a football manager (the usual managerial stereotype of older men, greying hair, teal coats and a serious, firm handshake), he’s _barely_ in his mid-twenties. His hair is cropped short and he wears earrings and drinks sugary drinks and has Kanye West on loop whilst he’s working. And all _that_ added to what Greg had said earlier, about Dan’s father and this _mysterious brother_ person only adds to the enigma.

This makes Phil even _more_ nosey, which is evidently a bad trait all round as he blurrily makes his mind to walk over to Dan; to properly _chat_ with the boss man. He sets down his drink hard, wipes his mouth on his shirt sleeve, and tries to fix his fringe desperately before the inaugural chat; he really doesn't know why he feels more nervous about this than his A-Levels results way back when. Phil even gives himself a pep talk beforehand: _It’s just Dan, boss Dan- but also, young Dan, who is your boss. Um. Right._ He’s running out of reasons on why he should do this.

Except then, he glances to his right back at the man- only to find him engrossed in a conversation with another fit-looking guy, who’s sliding a tenner over the bar to probably pay for Dan’s drink. He’s blonde- about Phil’s age- but he has the most chiseled physique that Phil has ever seen (and he has watched _several_ movies with Dwayne Johnson in them).

They are _still_ talking, Phil notices summarily, and he doesn’t know why his stomach is knotting and unknotting against his will. It’s _definitely_ because he’s just lost his _getting-to-know-Dan_ time to this asshole, who is now sat opposite Dan and they’re leaning slightly into each other. Not that he _cares_ who Dan sleeps with, really, that would be unprofessional. Completely. Totally.

He is also running out of synonyms, he decides, hollering for another bartender to bring him a shot of _anything really, thanks!_

 

-

 

The next morning is weird off the bat. For starters, Phil wakes up on a futon-cum-mattress thing on marble tiles. Which he couldn’t have afforded even if he won the lotto. Then, he spots an olive green wall facing him, littered with pictures of a woman and her daughter- both blonde. Unless he got married and then had a child within the last nine hours, he is not currently in his _own_ house, Phil suspects.

His head is pounding to the beat of a drum, his mouth feels bitter with the aftertaste of alcohol and so, he flops back down onto the bed; refusing to care about his possible _kidnapping_ just yet. He vaguely know taekwondo (does having a proper _Bruce Lee_ -esque coach as a neighbour once count?), so he has that, at least.

“Hey, are you Amish?” he hears a voice say- and he turns his head to the left hesitantly. He _knows_ who the smug voice fucking belongs to: he suddenly wishes he were _actually_ abductedin the present moment. Anything to get out of this.

His vision clears enough for Phil to take in Dan’s appearance- his hair is sleep-rumpled and he has on a light blue t-shirt. Dan also has his boxers on, length barely half of Dan’s thighs. Phil’s in _hell_ ; this he knows immediately. And he feels like throwing up.

He shrugs, mumbles to distract him from the bile rushing up his throat, “ _Pardon me_?”

“Are you Amish, mate? Well, they have this tradition called the _rumspringa-_ I’m sure there was an episode of _Doctor Who_ on it- and they like go all out crazy in town with the drinking and the partying because they’d just turned legal and-”

Is Dan _really_ subjecting _desperately hungove_ r Phil to a history lesson right now?

Dan almost senses Phil’s irritation and continues,“-I’m only asking because you drank as if you’d never seen a drop of alcohol before last night. Which is strange because you _obviously_ don’t look 18- stop giving me that look, _Phil-_ and yet you got piss-pouring _smashed_ last night,” Dan says, bright features decorated in dripping sarcasm.

 _That_ explains the headache.

 _God_ , Phil- are you stupid or _stupid_?

Phil gets up with his elbows, eyes Dan with squinting eyes. He’s still wearing his shirt from last night and he’s in _Dan’s_ grey sweatpants, he can only presume. And it’s apparent: he _really_ shouldn’t have followed the guys out.

Speaking of, “What happened last night?”

“Oh _boy-o_ , let me spare you the details, aite? I made us some breakfast- aspirin’s on the table- and we have to be at practice in half an hour so, hurry up, yeah?” Dan says calmly, scooping some bacon onto the two plates in front of him. He doesn’t look the least bit _uncomfortable_ with having a random man in his house. He realises the truth in Sam’s words from the night before.

“Thanks,” he says concisely, before running to bottom out his stomach in Dan’s kitchen sink.

 

-

 

“That was not my house, I’ll have you know,” Dan tells Phil- now cleaned-up and both in Dan’s car to the stadium for early-morning practice. Phil has sunglasses on for good measure; he can barely think straight so, the least he can do is look _cool_ while he’s at it. “You vomited _everything_ you’ve eaten in the past year in someone else’s ceramic sink. How does that feel?” Dan says derisively, shoots Phil and amused look.

“Yeah,” is all Phil says, noncommittally. Now more sober, Phil realises that retaliating to your boss’ questions with snarky comments might not be the best thing to do. _Especially_ if said boss helped your drunk arse last night. And the last time you _tried_ to be funny, he swept you off the ground in anger. Like who is to say Dan won’t _eject_ him out of the car if Phil is unconsciously rude to him? The confidence from last night dissipating, Phil no longer wanting to pick at the boundaries.

He is silent.

“Hey, _hey,_ what’s wrong? You don’t feel like puking again, do you? I’ll pull over!” Dan says, a bit of panic in his eyes. This must be a new car or something, he looks extremely invested in the movement of Phil’s innards. Which at the moment is pretty settled.

Phil sighs, appeases him by saying, “No, don’t worry, Dan. We just. It wasn’t _professional_ for me to have gotten that drunk on a working day. I mean, thanks and all that and it won’t happen again.” And Dan immediately bursts into a fit of laughter.

“God, am I _that_ scary? Mate, come _on_ , I was mean because dunno… I guess I needed you to respect me. I’ve never had someone work directly _with_ me and getting my coffee and handling events. I just. That’s _work_ , okay? We can be friends outside it. You seem like a cool dude, at least-” Dan says in a rush of words and luckily he misses out on Phil’s flushed expression. More _relieved_ than anything else.

“You’re right,” Phil finally smiles. “And to answer your question, I feel positively _fabulous_ about barfing everywhere. Though, I’m slightly worried by the possible home invasion part. Like I set out to only be your assistant, not _conspirator-_ ” Phil jokes, a more comfortable vibe settling in the car.

“Your point?” Dan drags out the words, grins.

“Should I be concerned about _my_ safety?”

Dan’s eyes twinkle. “Well, even if I was a sociopath, you’re not _really_ my type,” Dan tells him, looking boyish and young all of a sudden. Like he’s challenging Phil into saying something he really _will_ regret in a few minutes.

And Phil, having been awoken at fuck o’clock in the morning; nursing a rude hangover, no less, does what is natural when affronted with quasi-flirting.

“And what is your type, _exactly_ ?” And Dan laughs the loudest Phil has ever heard. He turns to Phil slightly incredulously and he dimples. “God, what have you done with sweet, innocent, _maybe eighteen year-old minor_ Phil Lester?” Dan asks as he switches on the blinker, turns left.

“For the fifteenth bloody time, _m’not_ Amish, Dan. Just own a low tolerance of the damn Smirnoff. Also, you haven’t clarified whose house you broke into- y’know what, don’t tell me, _you’d_ be the first to throw me under the bus,” Phil jokes like he would any other friend, and Dan makes a spoof of it by peering at the rear view mirror for police cars and blaring sirens.

“You’re right; but we’re in the clear for now. Also-" Dan coughs under his breath, _twat "-_ that was my friend, _Louise_ ’s house-” _Ah, that explains the blonde decorating the walls,_ Phil feels this knot from yesterday happily untwist in his stomach. “Louise and her daughter had something in Reading, so we switched houses for the time being,” Dan explains. He tells Phil more about Louise: it’s clear how close Dan is to her, them having met in English Lit at university.

“Ah, _language_ major? I wouldn’t have pegged you for that, at all,” Phil says fairly stupidly so, he hastily adds- “but, um. English Lit is pretty cool. Shakespeare and all that.” 

“Yeah-” Dan visibly gulps, “-I loved it, but y’know-” He shrugs, flippant in the response. He switches on a dial and Muse filters out of the radio. It’s an old album, Phil knows, one from before they became _Muse_ \- in fact, Phil was sure he was the only one in bloody England  who had the record ( _massive Muse fanboy that Lester is_ , he remembers old friends jeer at him). Apparently not.

“Nice taste.” Phil says then, quiet for the fact that he might’ve accidentally crossed a  _line_ with his prying questions. He never meant to- it’s clear: they’re _friends_ , but not those kinds of friends yet evidently. Something heavy settles on his heart.

Dan taps a rhythm against the steering wheel. Matt Bellamy serenades the rest of their journey.

 

-

 

“Oh, the man lives!” Sam exclaims as the other whoop at Phil’s walk of shame towards the middle of the field. He trails behind a bemused Dan who soon lets Phil take the lead because Dan’s an _ass_ who only has semi-good music taste.

“I’m fine-” Phil groans, a bit more feeling- he hasn’t decided if it is good or bad- in his body after the aspirin(s) kicked in. (He’d asked Dan earlier, “Are you _sure_ your friend’s ok with me- _you_ \- stealing all her medicine? I feel like you must’ve raided the cabinet for this.” “Yeah, I guess, hope they’re not expired or something-” Dan had replied nonchalantly). In retrospect, maybe he shouldn’t have taken that many.

The boys laugh. “Also, didn’t know you had those singing chops in ya, matey! Y’sure you weren’t in _X-Factor Rossendale_ by any chance?” Mick, bespectacled defender, asks then.  And oh, shitshit _shit_ \- Dan’s bloody shaking with suppressed laughter. Phil shoots him a glare and he raises his hands in mock-surrender.

“You _might’ve_ sung _All I Want For Christmas_ -”

“Shit.”

“...twice.”

Phil visibly thunks his head against the clipboard in his right hand, much to the amusement of the guys. “You guys are all fantastic, _thank you_ for a great night,” Phil tells them, embarrassment coursing through his veins, words muffled by the papers he’d smushed his head into.

Dan shakes his head, turns to the squad. His grim expression returning.

“All right, boys. Back to work.”

 

-

 

Sunday evening comes soon enough and suddenly, Phil’s in the squad room ten minutes before their quarterfinal match against Bolton. He hardly remembers the short bus ride there- having been preoccupied with the nerves settling in his stomach.

He doesn’t know why exactly he feels so nervous. It might’ve been Dan’s own swarm of butterflies rubbing off on him. They’d stayed late the night before finalising their squad members, Phil trying his best to help Dan decide between Johnson and Roy as goalkeeper, the substitutes for when someone inevitably gets tackled hard. He’d done good by learning the _basics_ , at least. He’d been able to actually assist Dan in ways that didn’t involve _scheduling_ or _Lester, Mark wants a decaf cappuccino, hurry will you_. And Dan’s clipped, almost-insults about Phil’s ineffectiveness as an assistant comes few and far between. It’s a refreshing change.

Phil supposes that he feels weirdly nervous because he’s spent the last week or two getting to know the players, the game. He’d even feel partially guilty if they _did_ lose today. Which he hopes to God they don’t.

In the present moment, Dan is giving the team a lengthy pep-talk and he looks ever so slightly on edge- though, he hides it better than Phil. “Okay, boys, we’re a couple of matches away from the top. We’ve been there before, boys. You don’t want to lose it all now. Remember who you keep an eye on during the corners, free kicks-” Dan tells them. “You know who the big threats are- Shaughnessy and Lukas- so, Mick, Bill, even Chris as the leftback, guard your areas like Frodo to the fucking ring-”

They all huddle soon after, and Dan, watching from  the corner, looks like he’s about to jump from the adrenaline or break down right there. _It’ll be over soon enough,_ Phil tries to convey. Dan nods, once, follows the team out onto the pitch.

The Macron stadium is _humongous_ , Phil thinks; he takes a seat in the stands, second row. There are Northerners of all ages whistling, clapping, at the sight of Dan and his team. It’s clear how much they adore the Howell family. The other side of the stadium sits the Bolton fans, clad in white jerseys. The jeering reminds Phil of his brother’s cricket tournaments that he had to sit through every Saturday. Overall, the atmosphere is so electric that Phil wishes for the first time in a while that he had his camera with him.  

Then: the whistle is blown and the game begins.

The players spread out like they had in practice- strikers Chong and Chris making quick work of the other half. (“They’re pretty _shite_ defensively, Bolton is. Hope the team picks up on that,” Mark had whispered from Phil’s left). Phil loses track of the passes, vaguely recognises the Oldham players from where he’s sitting, but Dan looks pleased. That has to be a good sign.

Phil realises, this is not at _all_ like cricket all those years ago. Phil doesn’t have time to feel bored in the midst of the screaming spectators and speedy kicks. His eyes trail over the ball in a fixed manner, like somehow losing sight of it would mean a win on Bolton’s part.

Chong gets the ball then. He swiftly slides it through the legs of a bumbling Bolton defender, sets up for a shot on target. Chris stands on the other side of the pitch, screaming for Chong to pass the ball over: he has a better vantage point. ‘ _Fucking hell. Fucking-’,_ they’re all collectively thinking as Chong contemplates his decision with a negligible glance up at Chris. The ball he secures under his cleats.

“Pass the ball!” Dan shouts from off-field, taken to biting the corner of his thumb. It is drowned out in the midst of all the shouting and in a split second, Chong _does_ kick the football. Not at Chris, but straight at the goal.

And Chong misses, spectacularly so.

Dan tries not to look too deflated, and the missed chance has the player burying his face in his hands. He kicks the ground in anger. Chris visibly scoffs in the other man’s general direction.

This is their only clear chance in the first forty-five.

 

-

 

The score at halftime is 0-0, much to Oldham’s relief- because as it turns out, Bolton is not half-bad at all; they had multiple opportunities but also seemed to fumble at the last minute- but also immense trepidation. Dan gives them all an inspirational lecture in the locker room to boost the spirits of the team, who look demotivated, to say the least.

Phil realises then how _hard_ competitive sport _really_ is. Especially if you’re dealing with a bunch of men who you can’t control- not when they’re actually playing. Trust is inexplicably important in this scenario- between player and coach. More so between the players themselves. And Chris sending the other striker death glares in the current moment doesn’t do _anything_ for the team morale.

Dan picks up on this, obviously. “ _Chris_ , would you please. Right, lads, we. We can’t lose this. Y’know were only in the _Quarters_ , we’ve all collectively worked to fucking hard to mess up now. So, get over your beefs with the other players, and let’s fucking slay these dragons tonight.”

The others look significantly jazzed, shaking their heads when Dan shoots them a look like _you guys choose to screw up now?_ Dan punctuates his point by circling around the word _VICTORY!_ on the whiteboard twice with a marker. “Their midfield is in shambles, _that’s_ where we can capitalise. Long dribbles, weave in between players. I want fluent passing like in practice, none of this _my ball, my goal_ nonsense.”

Dan’s good at these things, Phil’s realised. He’s a brilliant talker, eloquent in saying the right things. He’s evidently not lacking in confidence at all. And all the coaches seem to be nodding in agreement (except Dickhead Jerald, who not-so-silently comments amongst the crowd, “What _dragons_ is he on about. Tha’ boy’s a pale shadow t’his dad, clearly. Whatta shame.” Luckily, he is resolutely ignored.)

They reenter the second half with pensive movements, passing with more vigour than in the first half. Chong, in his glorified small stature, proves his worth by bobbing discreetly between opponents, seeking out unmanned areas of the pitch. Chris does equally as well: brilliant, and between them both they score two goals for Oldham.

Even with conceding a goal in the eightieth minute (seriously, aren’t these players even remotely _exhausted_ , Phil thinks), Oldham clinch the victory, _2-1._

 

-

 

Football afterparties: loud, thumping music, half-drunk men winding down from a stressful day of sporting by, you guessed it; talking about sport some more. Granted a few actually stumble onto the dancefloor for a poorly timed gyrating session with their girlfriends, but the majority sit around with chips and talk about matches like they don’t have a life out of football. (Which Phil can relate to, he has practically been _living_ at the stadium for the past two weeks, working.)

“Fuck, Chris, that goal was bloody _magical_ ," some Bolton player says and subsequently regrets because Chris’ ego doesn’t need more inflation _._ The others shoot Chris a displeased look. In fact, Chris looks halfway from dancing atop the table in front of him for "obviously winnin’ it for Oldham, you _fucking_ haters" _._ Which is the first thing Phil hears upon walking into the club that night.

“What did I do?” Phil asked, confused at how he’s managed to piss Chris off _already._ But Chris only laughs good-heartedly, claps Phil on the back (it’s a _sport_ thing, Phil realised early on- he hasn’t gotten these many thumps on the back since PE with Mr Bo in sixth form- and that was for _trying, at least, good on you, Lester_ ) and orders a margarita for Phil.

That is his only drink, he nurses it slowly as his mind flitted back to the incident the last time he was near alcohol. He hears, “-yeah, when like you see Harry running t’ya, for example-” Jerome is telling another player, using two sticks of fries to explain clearer, “-you got to like _shoot_ y’know? Right, Philly?” They’re looking at Phil, agog, and Phil can only do a perfunctory nod, salutes stupidly.

Jerome takes it upon him to flick the fries at Phil, sticks out his tongue.

“Fries are a good look on ya,” he hears a voice say from behind him, and it’s Sophie- grinning ear-to-ear when Phil turns around.

“You think?” he picks one up from where it’s landed on the junction between his neck and shoulder, pretends it’s a cigarette and lamely strikes a pose. “Vogue 2017, yes I’d buy it,” Sophie comments jokingly; sweetly waving to the bartender for another drink. “Y’wanna?” she asks, slurring a bit, and Phil wonders who exactly at this party is _sober_ anyway.

“Nah, um. Driving back later,” he says, checks his watch. It was almost ten when he arrived and now it’s quickly reaching half past eleven. He can afford to stay another half hour; a bit hesitant to do so, though, because he suspects he’d be the chauffeur for most of the team when they get wasted pretty soon.

He smiles politely at Sophie still. She asks, “Tell me about your photography,”- something he honestly wouldn’t mind talking about for hours at a time- but it’s cut short by Dan walking over to them, patting Phil on the shoulder.

“Hey! Didn’t think you’d show up after the adventures of _Drunk Phil_ last week,” Dan says, slurs at the end like he’s had a bit to drink ( _the pot and kettle and all that_ , Phil can only think). Phil grins at him slightly, says, “I’ll call ya when I feel Mariah _enter_ me once again.” Dan snorts a laugh. Phil turns swiftly enough to see a flash of irritation in Sophie’s features.

“Oh, um. Dan! You haven’t met Sophie have ya?” Phil says, and Dan seems happy enough to shake her hand. His palm is heavy on the small of Phil’s back for balance as he tips forward.

“Ah, Sophie, hi!-” the smile he offers is genuine, “-the one with the Starbucks,” Dan says and Sophie smiles again, a slight mocking tone when she replies, “Well, Phil here deserves the _best_ , doesn’t he?” Dan recoils a bit, flustered when he mumbles, “Yeah, yeah, ‘course. Well, I’ll leave you to it! Nice seeing ya, Phil. _Sophie_.” Phil easily ignores the slight edge to his voice.

And then, he’s gone.

“Where were we then?” Sophie asks expectantly, swirling her drink with a straw. She beckons Phil to take a seat.

“I’d love to talk, but gotta hit the road! Nice to see you, though!” Phil says and Sophie’s mouth quirks imperceptibly into a frown. “Yeah,” she corners him into a hug and her hands encircle Phil’s waist for a bit too long. Phil almost has to pry her off him.  _Maybe she’s affectionate?_

“Right.” Phil doesn’t stop to hear her reply as he sprints in the other direction. He says goodbye to the boys briefly, smirks when he tells them to _lay off the mimosas  for now_ . They laugh, don’t hold him to any more conversation; Phil’s sure then that he’s in the clear from any requests for a ride.

Somehow he bumps into Dan yet again before actually getting out the door.

“Leaving already? What happened to _party animal Phil_?” Dan teases.

“Gotta get up early for that famous manager guy I work for, ugh,” he replies, rolling his eyes comically. He’s a bit shocked at how his friendship with Dan has taken a _complete_ 180\. From Dan picking up and shaking Phil’s scrawny self on the pitch around to friendly chats at a bar; Phil thinks that working for Dan might not be so bad after all.

“Well, when you put it that way…” Dan says. “Yeah, I better get-” Phil gestures at the door beside him. There’s a brief moment where their eyes meet and Dan shakes his head in a small movement, suddenly (awkwardly) extending his hand. He looks dazzling in the dimming light of the strip LED above their heads.

“Um.” His palm is warm and inviting when Phil shakes it.

“Drive safe. Meeting s’at 10 tomorrow, don’t forget.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not sure how i feel about this chapter?? let me know what you think! feedback is great :)
> 
> i’m also on [tumblr](http://phanetixs.tumblr.com) so check for updates there if you like (if you'd also want to become a sort of unofficial beta for this fic-basically listen to my many rants about writing- let me know as well; i'd love the help!) 
> 
> :)


	4. Empat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of unbidden crushes and birthday parties and Dan being jealous of virtually everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully the fact that this is a 6k update somewhat makes up for its delay! s/o to kat for graciously reading through this and helping out with the plot! :)) be sure to check out the important announcement at the end :) enjoy!

So, as it turns out, Sophie is Mark’s daughter.

(He doesn’t actually _find_ out, as much as it was said in passing and Phil spent a good ten minutes frozen and trying to process how he hasn’t seen _it_ before.)

Phil is gobsmacked. To make things worse, it becomes extra obvious now that he knows; the notably curly hair they both own, the shiny smiles and pink cheeks. Their mannerisms are also quite similar, Phil notices then: both very polite, shy Northerners who like giving rather than receiving. If you are friends once, you are friends for life, in their book. This comes very much in handy when Mark approaches him one day, a week after their quarterfinals match.

Mark looks a bit puffed, like he’d chased Phil across the stadium parking lot that chilly Wednesday evening (he’s not wearing his gloves either, it must be something _urgent_ ). He shouts breathily, “Phil! Come here for a minute would you, mate?” After that, Mark promptly doubles over, wheezes like Phil would when he comes in contact with cat fur. All in all, not good.

“Hey, Mark, y’alright?” Phil asks, concerned, because he should _technically_ know where the nearest hospital is by now, but he doesn’t. He rushes over to Mark and hopes for the best. It’s then that Mark stands upright again, looking less winded than before. He thumps himself on the chest with a groan.

“Yeah, yeah, son. M’fine, just _exercise_ y’know-” he huffs, a bright smile once again decorating his features. And _yes,_ Phil knows. So he smiles. “Anything y’needed then?” Mark’s eyes widen at that gropes around his coat pocket for something. A small card is produced; for a second, Phil is half convinced that _that_ was the A5 flyer he found all those weeks ago- same size and all.

“Yeh, yeh, I- um. I remember once- or maybe Sophie mentioned it- that you were a photographer? Like in the camera _business_ and all that?” Mark asks him, and Phil doesn’t expect the line of questioning at all. He hasn’t picked up his camera in weeks, preferring to head straight to bed after a long day at the stadium. Besides, it’s not like many opportunities arise when you don’t _actively_ look for jobs. As he told PJ the last time, _hiatus_ is the word for it.

Still, “Yeah, I wa- _am_. D’you need some help with it?” Mark eyes go bright and he brandishes the card and holds it in front of him expectantly. Phil takes it from his cold, shivering hands and belatedly asks if Mark wanted his wooly gloves.

“Nah, thanks. My grandson. Um, _m’son’s_ \- Sophie’s younger brother- well, his son is turnin’ three this Sunday, that cheeky bugger. And we were looking for someone _qualified_ to take the pictures,” he says, looks nervously at Phil for any signs of irritation. Phil knows instantly that it’s the sort of _favour_ that many people would- understandably- refuse to take on. Especially on their _only_ day off. But, the thing is: Mark really _is_ a nice guy, why he ever thought Phil- the Phil he basically procured a job for- would ever turn him down is downright ridiculous, really.

Phil nods excitedly, genuinely; he flips through the card and sees the address, time stated in it. “Oh, dress code as well?” Phil asks, amused.

“Three year olds, what can ya do? The code is for the kids, but you’re _more_ than welcome to-” he gestures at Phil’s outfit. The theme stated is _Aloha Luau-_ which Phil assumes as the funky way of saying Hawaiian dinner but it’s the sort of thing that works in this context. “Yeah, yeah, sure-” Phil says distractedly, some drops of rain seeping through his jacket. Another thing about Oldham; it rains, a _lot._

“You in?” Mark asks, hopping from foot to foot and blowing warm air  into his cupped hands. The rain would result in a further drop in temperature and honestly, Phil can’t wait to get home and take a long warm bath. Yeah, that sounds _nicee,_ especially with that bubble soap he got from Mum-

“Phil?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. I’ll be there! Thanks for the invite!” he says, waving the card. “The pictures will turn out great!” he tells Mark (mostly trying to reassure himself, if he’s being honest) and Mark just salutes, runs back into the stadium.

_Well._

 

_-_

 

Phil’s set to meet PJ after work on the Thursday before the party. They’d barely properly spoken in the past few weeks, not with Phil spending the majority of his time with the team, and it’s the longest they’ve gone without them meeting and PJ properly teasing Phil face-to-face. It’s not mean when Phil kind of misses it anyway.

The plan is set, Phil’s bought Fallout 7 and has actively tried to rein himself in from popping open the packet and getting to _at least_ Level 10 before PJ arrived. Except, then, PJ and his stubborn ass would spend a good ten minutes ranting and giving Phil the evil eye that they’d eventually start from scratch anyway.

It’s funny, that’s exactly what Phil was thinking about; feigning interest in the paperwork he was currently filling up for the squad-  when PJ actually _walks_ into the office, the front door in Phil’s eyeline from where he is at an empty desk. Phil checks the time, then, realising that it’s only half past twelve and confirming that   _no,_ he wasn’t sucked into a wormhole in the _space-time continuum_ or whatever the heck Neil Degrasse Tyson was talking about the other day- PJ’s just _seven_ hours early.

Phil jumps up from his spot immediately, though, he tentatively stands behind the white wall separating the two parts of the office, he peers his head to listen in on the conversation between PJ and Sophie. “Hello, yes, I’m PJ Liguori? I was asked to film a feature on the club for the _Manchester Herald_?” he says politely enough, and Phil’s mind is positively frazzled that he doesn’t hear much of what PJ says.

“-yeah, any chance I could speak to um, an _employee_ of sorts. Phil Lester?” he hears PJ ask after a few seconds and this moment would be most opportune to walk round to the front, pretend to be _shocked_ when he sees his friend standing there. “ _Phil_ ? Oh, d’you know him?” Sophie asks, and Phil’s a bit too much of a narcissist to stop their conversation there. Since _he_ is included in its narrative.

“Yeah, um. He didn’t get fired, did he?” PJ asks, some concern in his tone. Sophie laughs it off, types something on the keyboard. “He’s just-”

“What’re you hiding from?” a voice startles the silence; tickles his ear, and the figure crouches beside him; Phil lets out an exhale when no one notices Dan’s appearance by his side. They’re only partially hidden- the wall in front of them not doing much to conceal two six-footers, and Phil doesn’t think twice before pulling Dan further towards him. Dan’s skin is warm where he tugs at his arm, and he gets a reprimanding look in return. He should probably be _more_ concerned that his boss just caught him skipping out on work to spy on his best friend in the lobby. Dan raises his eyebrow questioningly.

“Um-” He doesn’t have a good excuse, he belatedly realises. “The walls. Wanted you t’get a good look at it! Yeah, _dusty_ these slabs of concrete are, don’t ya think? I’ll have a word with Mr James about-” He inspects the wall in front of him, rubs some imaginary specks of dust between his thumb and forefinger gingerly.

“Hm… yeah, so, as it turns out, _lying_ to your boss might not be the best idea,” comments Dan, eagerly looking past Phil to the reception area. He smirks when he sees PJ standing there. “Oh, _boyfriend_ trouble?” he asks Phil, who looks so flustered that his pink matches the small teddy bear on Sophie’s table; to be fair, Phil _wouldn’t_ know how to answer, he’s not exactly sure of PJ’s reason either. He settles for a noncommittal shrug, nonchalance cracking when he tries to grab at Dan when the man decides to _get_ up, strolls over to where PJ is.

“Good evening, sir. Anything I can help you with?” Dan puts on his professional tone, discreetly sizing PJ up and down. Phil doesn’t see Dan frown a little afterwards. “Yeah. I’m PJ Liguori and I was the one who called earlier about the feature story?” PJ tells him and Dan nods in recollection. “Ah! Right! Phil, you can stop hiding now!” Dan smirks, snide smile on display as Phil embarrassingly walks over to the two men. PJ peeks from behind Dan and says, “Hi, Philly.”

“Yeah, Peej. You didn’t tell me you were on the job _here,_ ” he says menacingly, stepping closer to PJ to whisper furiously into his ear. _Also you should’ve given me some notice so I didn’t completely make a fool out of myself in front of Dan. Look! He’s got his_ cute _weird smile on- the one he has before he obliterates me in public._

“I _did_ \- you just weren’t listening to me,” PJ sing-songs. Phil tries so desperately not to stamp on his toes.

(And he’s right;  Phil remembers vaguely PJ texting him about a potential job- Phil had been dealing with the aftermath of a particular rant of Dan’s the previous hour, so _sue_ him for not giving a shit- that would, quote, _bring in that big dollar dollar what._ Phil sure wishes he’d asked more about it then.

The job, not the hideous rap reference.)

Dan clears his throat.

“Right, sorry to break up your little _lovefest_ here, but we should get down to business?” Dan says louder now. They both turn pointedly at Dan and follow him back to the players’ locker room for some chatting. They make small talk in the meantime, Dan asking PJ how he met Phil.

“University. At a party, funnily enough-” PJ says, and Dan giggles; no doubt thinking back to the pub incident a few nights before. “We were at this friend’s _soireé_ , basically this lame party with like classical music and tuna on toothpicks, and Phil was the only other person who had no idea what the fuck _hors d'oeuvre_ meant. Needless to say we quickly bonded,” tells PJ and he slings an arm around Phil’s shoulders in a friendly manner. Phil flushes pink.

“Yeah, turns out we were just tech nerds who knew too much about cameras,” Phil mumbles out quickly, and Dan snaps his fingers. “Oh, _right_ , photography major! You have to tell me about that sometime, sounds very… _hipster,_ ” Dan says, nudges his shoulder into Phil’s amiably.

“Says the one who memorised Tolkein and fucking Chekov for a living,” Phil retorts. Out of the corner of his eye he notices PJ smiling discreetly at their banter.

“Literary geniuses, truly. Besides, you _enjoy_ me quoting Lord of the Rings at you during my many rants around the office,” Dan says, and Phil looks away when he gets slightly red in the face. He thinks of Dan’s wild gesticulation when he talks poetry; his passion where literature is concerned. Football seems almost like an afterthought to him. Though, it isn’t obvious at all.

“Yeah, I only hold out for the parts about _Legolas,_ actually-” Phil replies then, laughs when Dan stops abruptly in front of him and stares a little.

“Oh, nice man crush, hmm?,” he says appreciatively, warily; almost like he’s prompting out _some_ response (confession?) out of Phil. It’s a waiting sort of silence that follows. Phil tries to figure out what Dan is waiting for him to say but PJ takes the beat, says: “Oh, properly in _love_ that one was. Shall I tell Mr Howell here about the posters? All _over_ in several different-” There’s a badly hidden strangled sound from Dan’s direction, though he quickly regains his composure and fixes Phil with a wry grin.

Thankfully, they reach the locker room soon enough and the few players who stayed back after practise wave warmly at the sight of Dan and Phil. They holler over, “Practise is over, boss, you’ve got no hold on us today!” from their seats and Dan shakes his head, introduces PJ. “Nah, wouldn’t do that to _you_ lazy lot- this is Mr Liguori, he’ll be conducting interviews for a feature on the club.”

The men look around. “With the few of us?”

Dan swivels around to meet PJ’s eye, apologetic in his tone. “Yeah, practice got cut short today, um. The lads will be back Monday for their med checkups and squad meeting. You can meet them then?”

PJ winces a bit and is quiet for a few moments. “I’ve gotta start on these interviews _quick,_ Mr Howell, these big guys up on the top floor of the Herald building are breathing down my neck for this- _especially_ since the match is next weekend,” PJ says quick in a flurry of words, and Phil feels guilty for not having tuned into PJ’s words the last time they spoke; he could’ve slid PJ’s interview session somewhere in the club schedule.

Then, he has a random idea. “ _Hey,_ Mark’s having his grandson’s birthday party this Sunday and I heard from Marcus that the whole squad is invited? Would that work?”Phil asks expectantly, looking at PJ contemplating the idea. “But, it’s hardly is _your_ party, is it? Y’sure Mark will be ok with this?” It’s Dan who asks then.

“ _Sure_ , I mean-” Is he sure? Mark is a nice enough guy, surely he wouldn’t mind? Anyway, Phil would get him sold on the whole _PJ is a film student_ part because Northerners seem to like the secretly artsy people, apparently. Though, he still thinks to check with Mark and tells PJ, “I’ll check and let’cha know-” He lowers his voice, “we still on later at 7?”

Dan backs away a little, looking slightly sour.

“Um. Gotta get started on this, sorry, mate. Some other time?” PJ says and Phil just _knows_ this must be a big job, enough for PJ to bail on Fallout and a much overdue catch-up session with Phil. And Phil isn’t angry, not at all- in fact, this gives him a foolproof excuse on why he is halfway done with the game the next time PJ comes over.

Phil smiles kindly. “Yeah, no problem. I’ll let you know.”

 

-

 

Spoiler alert: Mark says _yes; hell yes_ , in fact, when Phil asks if PJ can stop by the party this weekend. Mark might’ve been under the impression that his family is being interviewed for the feature (blame this on Phil’s choice wording of: _yeah, he’s a videographer and he’s doing an interview_ ) but what Mark doesn’t know won’t hurt him, honestly.

And Sophie seems over the moon that they’re both attendees. In fact, she goes to the extent of asking if they need a ride over to her brother’s. Which is particularly odd considering: “But, don’t you guys live together or something?” he enquires, over the phone.

The line crackles a little bit- he’s sure he hears Sophie giggle on the line- but then she says, “Yeah, but I don’t mind. _Honestly._ ”

But Phil still politely declines, tells her, “Yeah, it’s ok. Peej and I can make our way just fine, thanks!” And when Sophie makes a soft noise of disapproval,  a vibrating sound at his ear gives him an out of longer conversation. “Oops, that’s a text, see you soon!”

The text, as it turns out, is from Dan, who asks Phil if he’ll be making his way to the party this weekend.

The last they spoke over text was barely a night ago, Dan virtually _narrating_ the whole plot of the Revenge of the Sith to Phil over text as he rewatched the _best movie of the 20th century, you’re a pleb, Phil._ 20 consecutive messages from Dan and Phil had managed to squeeze in a short reply every now and again- unrelated facts about squids because he knew they’d make Dan smile, at least.

 

 

 

 

> **Phil:** Yeah, but don’t you already know that? :)

 

He adds the smiley face for good measure.

 

 

 

 

> **Dan:** Oh yah, guess I’m just bored and wanna talk.

 

Phil feels his stomach flip weirdly. It’s not like- well, they have been making ground in the friendship department recently. It’s not particularly weird given how similar their interests are; Muse, video games- generic _emo_ boy cool stuff in the early 2000s. What’s weird is the fact that they are able to go on for _ages_ about it- beyond the confinements of _free time_ and lunch hours. Phil’s pretty sure it has seeped into their professional meetings as well- with Dan unironically quoting something by Gerard Way and catching Phil’s eye whilst they’re at it. Unfortunately, the _flippy-over_ feeling comes _exclusively_ part-in-parcel with their incidental eye contact.

 

Not exactly true: Case in point, he feels the stomach flip too. And Dan’s in _London_ for the day for some big, _uppity_ manager’s conference.

 

 

 

 

> **Phil:** Hah, shouldn’t you be listening???
> 
>  
> 
> **Dan:** Once they start on something more interesting, I will. Now just blah blah money blah Premier League
> 
>  
> 
> **Phil:** well better than document filing I suppose :///
> 
>  

(Phil immediately regrets his _life_. Rule 181 in Assistant Guidebook: Don’t complain about your job.)

 

 

 

>  
> 
> **Dan:** Ouch, should’ve taken you w me then, we’d possibly be less bored together
> 
>  

See, Phil should get the _rollercoaster-ing stomach_ thing checked out. It surely can’t be good for his health if it happens this often.

 

 

 

 

> **Phil:** hmmm ok but im getting on the first train back home if you start talking about matt bellamy’s bellybutton and how alliteration is kool
> 
>  
> 
> **Dan:** you fiend, the cool is with a ‘k’ because you knew it’d bother me, right. fuck off
> 
>  
> 
> **Phil:** :))))
> 
>  

They’re better friends than he thought, Phil thinks later.

 

-

 

The next day, Dan’s back from London and they’re all at work for some important coaching meeting at the stadium. It’s a dreary Saturday morning, a day before the big party _extravaganza_ (it’s just a _little_ get together, Mark had said- though it’s severely undermined by the fact that Phil just watched him invite all the cleaning staff to the party with a jolly smile), the snow from the night before settling enough for the carpark to be marginally of use  but a steady gust of wind still appearing now and then.

It’s to discuss the squad line-up for the semifinal match the following weekend, Dan tells him, knowing fully that Phil knows _exactly_ the details of the meeting (he planned it, after all) but still wanting to strike a conversation with Phil as they walk towards the meeting room. They walk too close through the narrow corridor, hands brushing once or twice. Phil grips his coffee cup tightly at the whiff of musky cologne assaulting his senses, the warmth in his hand a pleasant distraction from the Dan by his side.

“Yeah,” he says before the other coaches pile up in the meeting room and Phil takes his usual seat at the back, hidden by the bigger bodies in front of him.

(It’s not like he _has_ to attend, but, he’s beginning to take this job a whole lot more seriously than before and this seemed a bit necessary; Phil wanting to remain in the loop despite his lowly position in the club hierarchy. _It’s nice to feel more important than you actually are_ , Phil thinks, idly jots it down by the small notes he’d been making throughout Dan’s short presentation.)

There’s a heated discussion taking place at the front. Dan talking fast and slow at the same time, trying to get Jerald to understand his rationale for the squad picks. Dan’s just _wasting_ his breath, honestly, Jerald wouldn’t get something even if it were plainly served on a platter in front of him.

“You’re fuckin taking Chris Kendall out of the line-up?  Son, you fuckin _thick_ or what?” spits Jerald then, tone condescending and unprofessional all at once. Everyone is chattering amongst themselves, no doubt questioning the player formation on the screen in front of them. _4-3-2-1._ One striker for next week’s match. One out of the two they currently have.  

Dan sighs. “Chong can handle his own, Wigan have defenders that can’t run half as fast as that guy can-” He says pointedly, but Jerald isn’t pleased yet. The man retorts, “Yeah, why can’t Kendall do it then? He has a better scoring record, he’s offensively the _best-_ ”

And truthfully, Jerald has a point. Statistically speaking, Chris has scored five goals in the Manchester Cup to Chong’s three. He’s en route to winning the Gold Star of the Cup award for his sheer dominance in the scoring half of the pitch. But-

“Phil, what do you think?” Dan interrupts to ask him then. Phil is a bit taken aback because this has _never_ happened before, not the heads turning in his direction during an important meeting, not Dan looking at him straight in the eyes waiting for a response. He’s not prepared but something in Dan’s eyes spell desperation like _I need your back in here Phil_ and Phil helpfully obliges.

Jerald scoffs when Phil sort of stands up like he’s back in school and Madam Clarke is expecting him to answer her question on Stoichiometry. He’s sure his left leg is shaking a little- some things never change, as it turns out.

He swallows the hesitation in a gulp. “Um. Well, I suppose Chris is _sort_ of better? But remember the bust-up he had on Thursday, sir?”

 _Yes,_ they all remember the real reason why practice on Thursday ended quite abruptly- barely a couple of hours before PJ showed up at their office. Where Chris was still a _tad_ bit hung-up on the debacle of their first half against Bolton that upon seeing Chong that morning, swung a fist at him, at his nose. He hadn’t been discreet about it either, it was a punch right on the pitch; easily seen from where he and Dan were standing- and it took about five people to separate them both, scuffling on the muddy soil beneath them.

Jerald is silent then, knowing no way to defend Chris out of this mess- mainly because it was _his_ fault anyway, his and his temper’s. As a viable punishment, shouldn’t he have to sit out in the next practice? Seems only fair to Phil.

“Yes, Jerald-” Dan sighs. “- his little temper tantrum cost us a few valuable hours of practise. He has to be taught a lesson s’well. Wouldn’t want the boys to start picking fights all over the place?” Dan reasons and Jerald looks a bit like a deer caught in headlights. Then, a more defiant look graces his features.

“You’re listening to **_him_**?” he points a stern finger in Phil’s direction, “-the _twat_ who knows nothing about football,” he scoffs, swivels back to look Dan in the face. “I was here back when your father was, and I’m _disappointed,_ Dan-” he says, and Dan’s face falls for a split second. Being compared to anyone is shit, Phil thinks; and as much as he wants to _punch_ Jerald in the face, he knows when he’s needed to be quiet.

“Phil’s _not_ the stupid one here; anyone who has _half_ a mind would know that Chris is a brat who needs a bit of shaking this week,” Dan says firmly, smirks when Jerald looks a bit scandalised for being called out. He then moves to stamp out of the room to complete the _childish-old-man_ cliché.

Dan looks a bit pleased with himself, motions for Phil to take his seat. He nods a silent _sorry_ and _thanks_ at Phil.

“Okay, now, where were we?”

 

-

 

He sees Dan in the hallway after the meeting, can’t stop himself before he catches his wrist lightly and guides him into an empty room to the left.

“Phil?” Dan’s voice is a bit breathy- the empty room amplifying each sound by a thousand and Phil shudders at their proximity, even as they stand more than a few metres apart.

“Yeah, um-” He’s beginning to think his reason for this is stupid. “I wanted to catch you before you left and. Um. Thanks for sticking up for me back there. Jerald was _right_ , I have no clue what I’m doing but- er, I’m glad my thoughts were taken into account,” Phil says genuinely, grins when Dan waves it off.

“You made a valid argument, Phil. You’re getting _good_ at this footballing stuff, don’t sell yourself short,” Dan says and Phil doesn’t know how long he’s waited for Dan’s validation but he feels more relief now that it’s here. There’s a pause where they both sort of look at each other, an awkward sort of silence filling the room. Poignant moments are neither of their strong suits, as it happens.

Phil does what is most natural, barrels Dan into a half-hug in gratitude and says softly about how Dan’s the _best_ coach he’s ever known, and how they’re going to _win_ this stupid Manchester’s Cup and-

Dan’s hugging back; warm, strong and they stand there basking in the safety and security of each other’s embraces for a bit too long.

 

-

 

The party comes quick afterwards and before Phil knows it, he’s in PJ’s car and they’re making their way to Mark’s family house in North Oldham, about an hour and a half’s drive on the M62. It’s almost dusk when they leave and it sets a warm glow as they whiz past empty fields and small cottages in the county. There’s a soft tune playing on PJ’s radio- he recognises it from some sort of video game soundtrack.

“Undertale. Nice,” he comments after they’ve been quiet for the first half hour.

PJ is distracted out of his reverie, says, “Hmm.. oh, yeah, the game wrecked me emotionally and yet I still want constant reminders of it around me.” He turns the dial a few notches. He eyes Phil through the corner of his eye. “Y’gonna tell me about you and Dan or not?”

Phil chokes on seemingly nothing. He’s sure he’s blushing when he turns to face PJ and raises his eyebrow. “I’m sure I don’t have a _clue_ what y’on about-” Phil replies softly, stares past PJ to some kids in the field next to their car.

“ _Phil,_ ” he gets back in return, exasperated tone. And this is when Phil’s nonchalance cracks a bit and he’s sure PJ can see right through him. He answers, “ _Nothing_ \- just, we’re friends, that’s it.”

“But?” PJ knows him too well.

Phil feels his conflicted feelings battling to the surface, bubbling to escape the box Phil’s stored them in his brain. They’re _friends_ , he lets himself lie again to PJ; who lets the matter rest hesitantly afterwards.

The fact of the matter is; Phil might fancy Dan a little bit (especially when those dreams of Dan in his boxers from Phil’s _drunken morning after_ (sort of) and soon, lot less than that, wriggle into Phil’s late-night visions), the _Friend_ Dan not _Manager_ Dan because that might break more than a few rules in the virtual handbook.

Because they have tons in common, and Dan’s extra gorgeous when he’s ranting at Phil about the planet Pluto, and texting Phil memes and deep quotes (the texts alternate between the two) from his late-night Tumblr browsing sessions.  Their conversations becoming familiar, almost _intimate_ ; and Phil can’t stop the emotions from incessantly swirling in the pits of his stomach.

Still, after this, there’s no telling if Dan would want to keep him around. Their earlier arrangement was for Phil to help out _only_ until they end their journey in the tournament and then, _afterwards_ ? Phil would go back to photography and Dan at his managerial position; their paths won’t converge. It’s easier for Phil to not admit aloud that these feelings exist, repress them in the box, than to blurt it out and get his heart broken from the inevitable _we have to let you go, Phil_ ahead of him in the next few months.

It’s all just. Easier.

He must be quiet for a lot longer because PJ looks at him worriedly, asks, “Y’okay there?”

 _I don’t know._ “Yep, we’re reaching now, aren’t we?”

 

-

 

Mark and the birthday boy greet him at the door, and their smiles widen when they see the camera slung over Phil’s shoulder. They’re about half an hour early and the guests are only beginning to start filtering in- perfect from a photographer’s standpoint. Mark and his grandson are both dressed in funky Hawaiian t-shirts and cut-out crowns on their heads.

The crowns are askew on their heads from where they wave excitedly at Phil and PJ when they approach. “Mate, thanks for comin!” Mark says, shaking Phil’s hand. “Yep, um. Mark, this is my friend, PJ, the reporter?” he introduces and PJ fixes Mark with a dazzling smile, one that makes toddler Justin laugh and gurgle.

“Yes, yes,” Mark says then, reaching over to shake PJ’s hand kindly, and he smiles when he notices Phil looking around. “Party’s out back. Got the barbecue set up and everythin’!” he says, ushers them to the crowd of about twenty steadily engaging in conversation around tables. Phil recognises a few players amongst them and waves when he has the chance. He grabs his camera and sets it up. He murmurs to PJ, “That’s Matt and  Lyle over there; defender and rightback, so start on them if you want. The others should be on their way.”

Looking around, Phil goes to take the first few photos; Mark and his grandson, Sophie and her brother- he tries to get in as many photographs in the pretty lighting of setting Sun and early night. Sophie treats him to a beer, that he pleasantly nurses for a while and he stands by the flames of the barbecue and takes in the raucous noises from behind him. PJ is doing great- he flashes a quick thumbs up at Phil from where he’s furiously filming the players- and Phil feels this wave of pride for his best friend. It’ll be a great feature, Phil can already tell.

He rounds the front of the house, where the majority of guests under age 5 are, and spots Dan walking through the front gates. Dan, who’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt with _surfer_ Santas on them. Phil tries to wave but Dan isn’t heading in his direction at all, he stops at the kids playing some game in the front patch of grass. They’re all counting _1..2..3_ with their eyes closed, and Dan steps into tickle at Justin’s sides, grins maniacally when Justin’s face brightens as he sees who it is. “Uncle Danny!!!” the toddler screams excitedly, wraps two arms around Dan’s gangly leg and smiles, more so when Dan holds out a wrapped present in front of him.

“Yay!! But _gwaaame_ , Uncle Dan, _come_!” the boy says, and suddenly, Dan is roped into some game- which, well, Phil doesn’t know what it entails exactly for he’s too busy taking photos of the group. He still stands a bit farther away, having to zoom in a bit more than usual; but the bright smile Dan has on  in each picture makes the scene come alive. He moves away only when Dan does, goes to the back.

For the next hour, Phil is caught up taking pictures of the _other_ guests, of Mark standing by the barbecued meat with a proud smile and a thumbs up; of Sophie catching up with PJ but shooting him fond grins when he comes by. The atmosphere is very relaxed (Phil half-expects it to turn into chats about the upcoming match but the players are surprisingly adhering to normal party etiquette) and a cool breeze rattles through the tent, a pleasant ambience settling.

It’s now when he decides to take an informal tour around the house- his job almost done anyway, 250 photos in. There’s the front that he was earlier, the back, but; to the side, there’s a small verandah overlooking some green garden. It’s slightly secluded from the the rest of the house (possibly a past play area for Sophie and John) and it’s lighted dimly- romantic, almost.

And of course, this is where he sees Dan.

“Hey,” he says when Phil approaches with his camera in hand. “Whatcha doing here, _Mr Official-Photographer- of- Oldham_?” He smirks when Phil raises the camera again; takes candid pictures of him, soft under the dim lighting.

“Oh, yeah... _work_ that pose, come on, Howell,” whilst snapping shots. Dan laughs, mumbles something like _you dork_ under his breath as he clears some space for Phil to take a seat beside him. He vaguely hears some old song in the background;  thumping from the back.

“Nice weather innit?” he comments, sips on a the mojito he has now worryingly progressed to in the past hour.

“Why, Phil; The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play. So we sat in the house. All that cold, cold, wet day-” Dan remarks after a minute of contemplation.

“Seuss.” Phil smiles. “Ah, of course, your pretentiousness knows no day, no weather,” Phil says, and Dan goes along with it; places a hand over his heart in mock sadness. “Remember who’s paying your wages, kind sir,” he says, fond. And Phil has nothing to say to that, blurts out:

“I saw you with the kids earlier-” Dan grins. “-you’re good with ‘em,” he says slightly too enthusiastically, worried Dan would see past the surface  to the undertones of awe in his voice, the sound of quick heartbeats and admittedly elevated crush levels.

Dan coughs. “My brother had- _has_ \- two kids of his own,” Dan’s face falls and he knows quite enough to not broach the topic. “Can’t relate, to be honest. I’ve only got an older brother. _Twat_ half the time, but we’re good. He gave me my first photography job out of university, in fact,” Phil tells him, and they launch into a conversation about it.

“What he _didn’t_ tell me was it was at this sort of strip club? Apparently a friend of a friend needed a guy to take pictures of rowdy men and half-naked women.” He laughs, covering his face ashamedly in his palm.

“Oh my _god_ , I remember my friends bringing me to one a few years ago- during some semester break- and the _things_ I saw, Jesus on a fucking boat-”

Phil can’t help a wave of unpleasant feelings lick at his stomach.

“Yeah. Um. I tried to zone all those things out and _focus_ on the pictures you know-”

“Pun.”

“Good eye,” Phil comments. “But, taking pictures is great, it’s like. You meet so many different faces; catch them at their happiest most poignant moments. That’s what does it for me, at least.” Phil feels more sober than a few moments ago.

Dan catches his eye, twinkles. “That’s, gosh, that’s _amazing_ , Phil. That was me, with the- um. Seuss and Hemingway and too-old books, I suppose. But, life doesn’t quite turn out the way you want it to be sometimes,” his tone is short, soft.

“Yeah, though, all roads lead to Rome when you think about it, even if you detour to fucking Antarctica or something,” Phil tries to say, deep and motivational and whatever. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a fantastic job so far,” he continues, and looks on as Dan shakes his head, exhales a shaky laugh.

"You sure you weren't a secret English major in a past life?" Dan jokes.

"For a year maybe," Phil replies, thinking about the professor who spat more than he said actual words.

"Oh, the plot thickens," Dan says, rubbing his palms together. His bravado deflates in an instant. “Thanks for that, though, you’re probably the _only_ person who has faith in me at this point,” tells Dan, and they’re both thinking of the meeting the day before, the way the coaches sided with Jerald before Phil piped up. How they murmured more dissent than approval at Dan’s managerial decisions.

Phil says, quite honestly: “Always.”

Because it’s unfair for Dan to be judged so harshly when they’re in the semifinals. When Dan’s the most interesting man he’s met in ages and no one seems to _get_ that, get him. Phil intends to stay the whole way through (and it’s slightly worrying that Phil realises he’d only leave when Dan tells him to. In the future. In a few months), help Dan the best he can whilst Dan wants it.

Dan’s looking intently at him now, them leaning in slightly. And Phil thinks the action is involuntary, on Dan’s part at least- he spies the almost empty glass on Dan’s right- and pulls back a little; enough. They’re starting to sing Happy Birthday in the background, Phil can smell the scent of red velvet and happiness and he thinks sadly that he has to go in now. Properly play the part of worthy photographer.

He lifts the camera apologetically, gestures inside. “Y’coming?”

“Nah, I’m good. You go ahead, I’ll join you in a second.” He continues to sit and stare at the dark moonlight ahead of him.

“Ok. Just. When you do, I’ll be there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hi let me know what you think below/tumblr at phanetixs.tumblr.com
> 
> update: there will only be 2-3 chapters left in this fic, unfortunately! i won't have much time to write come January so i'm genuinely sorry if this whole fic feels rushed or not planned out well! maybe i'll master slow burn in another lifetime, hah 
> 
> thank you for all the support thus far! you guys have been great! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Updates on Fridays, hopefully! the actual football comes next week!! let me know if you want to read more? 
> 
> come talk to me on tumblr//phanetixs// or twitter//@yeukalyptus 
> 
> :)


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